Kingdom Come
by Hermitt
Summary: Azalea grew tired of immortality and stepped through the Veil, but a Master of Death cannot die and instead she found herself in a whole new world. She grew to love Westeros and its people grew to love her, then a conqueror came on the back of a dragon. He may have ridden the dragon but Azalea spoke its tongue. Fire and blood came to nothing when magic proved its might. FEM HARRY


This story is not affiliated with or endorsed by J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, or any of their publishers or licensees. It does not imply or claim any rights to their characters or creations.

Harry Potter is a registered trademark of Warner Bros.

Game of Thrones is a registered trademark of HBO.

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~ _Part One_ ~

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The sun was shining when Azalea decided to kill herself. So many decades had passed since she'd been made so famous by a silly little scar, and so long had passed since she'd cured herself of the dirty piece of soul holding her back. In that time she'd grown, and fought, and loved, and learned. No one could say, least of all Azalea, that she hadn't had a good life, all things considered. She'd had good parents, however brief a time; she'd had good friends, who'd loved her as fiercely as she'd loved them; she'd saved the world from the darkest wizard in written memory, learning the power of love and sacrifice; she'd married and had children, lives and loves she would never regret or forget; and she'd changed the world after the defeat of the Dark Lord, making policy and implementing changes, and ushering the world she loved into what history would call the Golden Age of Wizarding Britain. But her greatest accomplishment, and her greatest secret, was becoming the Master of Death.

An ironic title because imagining yourself able to control such a thing as death was arrogance beyond measure. Azalea had thought it an idea, a sense of self, a personal growth but not a thing of tangible power. True, the cloak remained in her family and was passed down to her son, the ring was left deep in the forest where no one would ever find it or recognise its worth if they did, and the wand was returned to the headmaster she'd admired so much, to be kept safe until her dying day. That dying day came seemingly too soon and not soon enough. Her husband was dead, her children grown with children of their own, and the wizarding world had no need of her any longer; her legacy would be enough. Then, as she felt in her soul that she was breathing her last breaths, a ring appeared on her finger, a wand in her hand, and a cloak around her shoulders, and her next breath came easier and not quite so wheezy, and the next, and the next, until her chest felt light, her limbs felt spry, and her vision was clear again.

Azalea Potter had been on death's door, and death had turned her away. She was made young again, a youth she had not felt since her old enemy had cast the Killing Curse on her in Aragog's old nest. And so she spent the next several centuries playing sentinel to her family and the wizarding world, as she always had, with her bottomless mokeskin pouch her only accessory as it ever had been. This time, though, she did so alone.

.

As it would always do, the world kept spinning and time moved forward, and Girl-Who-Lived Azalea Potter became a History of Magic lesson, told by a ghost no one really listened to anyway. She didn't mind. The world was at peace, her family had flourished, and there were no stirrings of darkness that she could sense. All was well, and Azalea felt in her heart that it was time to move on. She'd tried, of course, because no one who can live forever can do so without pain or feelings of bone-deep loneliness, but each time she'd come back. The Killing Curse failed to work on her, as it ever had, so she didn't feel that too strange even if it made her sigh; more bloody ways to end her life had proved useless, as she'd gracefully fallen into the black only to wake again not long after, safe – if alone – in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest she'd once known well. Each new method to quietly end her life had been as futile as the last, life breathing back into her after a gentle nudge from the dark, pushing her back to the world like her work was not yet done.

She grew weary, and lonely, but not bitter. She'd learned many things in her life, and she'd learned bitterness well enough to never hold court with it again. So she strove to put to use her infinite time, in the best way she knew how. Azalea helped people and found fulfilment in tasks that she had not when she was just learning for her own benefit. It was easy to feel the truth in her own ageless bones, that she could not help others sincerely without also helping herself. Over those many years she spent around the world learning new things, helping new people, and doing something worthwhile with the time she'd been given, but nevertheless Azalea found herself longing to see old faces that had centuries ago passed on. The memory of her godfather, though, had always lingered in her head. More specifically the way he'd died, and the place it had happened.

Research of her own into the Death Chamber had never gained traction. It seemed some mysteries would remain that way no matter how dedicated humans were, or how hard they worked to understand. It was death, one of the last mysteries left in the universe, even to its master. So with lingering, light steps, Azalea had travelled the world one final time, taking in its changes and its wonder, and spending her last years in that world appreciating life in all its forms. She was weary, but she was ready. Azalea only hoped that it would be her last walk.

The London sky was uncommonly clear the day she arrived, and the sun was bright and warm and everything good in the world. Azalea wandered down streets and up roads, quietly observing the loud rush of people going by. They were always in such a hurry, but Azalea supposed they had a right to; she didn't need to hurry because she had all the time to spare, whereas their lives were so fragile, so fleeting, and they had so many wonderful things to fit into the short years their bodies held them to the earth. More than once she'd met a person that she felt would have been much more suited to the years she had, but then she decided that part of their legend was that they burned so brightly in the short time they lived. Not all had the chance to shine, though, and the fragile youth that she was unable to save caused her heart to mourn each time. Azalea had a soft spot for children. She'd been a mother herself, for so many years, and found it only natural that she gravitated especially to helping the young and those who could not yet help themselves. But if there was one thing she'd learned in her many years it was that all things have their time. Azalea knew hers had come, and she was at peace with that.

It took no effort these days to disguise herself. With only a passing thought Azalea was disillusioned, not needing to twitch her fingers, though the action was comforting and familiar. She strolled through the Ministry on feet light as air, taking one last moment to gaze around her at what she and her friends had accomplished. Everything around her today was because of the conviction of all her contemporaries during the reign of Voldemort. It made her feel accomplished and warm, and that feeling did not leave her when she entered the Department of Mysteries, or stepped into the Death Chamber. Azalea could faintly remember feeling cold the last time she was there but her heart lifted instead as she heard the whispers, clearer than they'd ever been, urging her forward, and felt comforted and compelled by the same impossible breeze that stirred the smoky curtain in the archway.

Whereas Azalea Potter, elderly witch and wizarding legend, had died with the whole world mourning her on a rainy day, Azalea Peverell, the Master of Death, left the world while the sun was still shining, without disturbing a single heart.

.

Azalea kept walking through the dark, feeling a gentle tug that kept her feet moving forward. She hadn't really expected to see King's Cross again – she'd changed far too much for that to still be her crossing – but in her heart she'd still hoped, a little bit, that a wizened old face would be there to greet her again. A faint brightness began to lighten her vision, though, and the space around her seemed to dance. She kept walking, feeling her feet begin to move her in a steady incline towards the light. Azalea watched the world around her move and distort, the light filtering in from above making playful patterns all around her. She lifted her hand slowly, like the air was thick, and let the radiance dance on her palm and with her fingers. She noticed the light grow brighter, and her movements requiring more effort, before she felt the sky part around her head and took a large breath of cold air, realising for the first time that she hadn't breathed at all during her long walk.

Azalea regarded the small clearing around her as her shoulders, then waist, and finally legs and feet breached the surface and she wandered forward. It was a very peaceful place. Her magic felt tangible here, beside the bone white tree with blood red leaves and a timeless weeping face watching the world pass by. Glancing behind her she saw a small body of water with a glassy surface. Azalea tilted her head and strolled closer to it, tapping her foot on the water. It came away wet, but she was dry and she knew she'd come out of the pool. It was cold in the land by the water, though, so she distractedly charmed herself warm and turned to study the new place more closely.

She was not ignorant, or slow-witted, so Azalea knew immediately that she was not in the afterlife. So many years spent living and becoming so closely attuned to her magic allowed Azalea a deep connection to and awareness of the world around her, whatever world that might be. This was a new world, with more magic in the soil and trees and snow than most places she'd known. Magic saturated the wood here as surely as magic had saturated Hogwarts, but it was a different kind of magic, something equally more ancient and feral, dormant and thriving. It made the hairs on Azalea's neck stand on end in both caution and excitement, because the world here felt alive in a way the Earth she'd called her home for so many years had not. The power here sparked Azalea's curiosity, filled up her bones, and made her feel like a living conductor and even more powerful than before. The lingering disappointment she'd felt about not dying was gently washed away by the cold wind that stirred red leaves, and anticipation took its place.

With a new hope and fresh curiosity, Azalea let her feet lead her towards a small town in the shadow of a breathtaking grey stone castle. In a few short moments she ascertained what type of world she had found herself in. It seemed this world had balanced more magic with less technology, as opposed to her own home, in a medieval mimicry of times long gone. But it was not without its charm and, with a small flick of her finger, Azalea transfigured her simple clothes into a simple dress, mimicking the style she could see, and wandered into the bustling town, eager to explore.

She drew eyes, as she knew she would, and she wasn't so insecure that she pretended it was because she was a new face. That was part of the reason, no doubt, but her colouring was distinctive even on her Earth where all colours of the rainbow were used to stain hair, and she was beautiful. With lifelong ease, though, Azalea disregarded the attention she received and continued further into the town, a lone raven following her out of the wood.

Soon enough crying reached her ears, distinct from the otherwise lively conversations around the town, and she followed the sound to a small woman begging at a stall. Azalea stood back and observed her plead with the merchant using foreign words and quickly cast a charm to understand. The woman was pleading for medicine for her sick child and the man denied her and said she'd already tried all his remedies, that it was best to make peace now because her son was going to die. Many things were already apparently different in this new world but one thing never changed; Azalea would always help those where she was able.

She hurt for the woman as she cried at the man that turned her away and quickly stepped beside her and touched her elbow, applying a weak charm to calm the distraught mother.

"Perhaps I can help," she said, smiling gently as teary brown eyes turned to her. "I'm a healer," she told her, "I may know remedies this man does not."

The woman opened her mouth and quickly shut it with a trembling lip, sniffling and begging silently with wide eyes. Soon she was shaking her head, though, and pulling away, looking less hysterical but more distressed than before.

"I haven't the money," she hiccupped, closing her eyes. "I couldn't pay you for your services."

Azalea quickly corrected her, reaching forward again and resting her hand on her shoulder. "I don't need money. I don't want money."

The older woman looked at her with so much hope that Azalea's heart hurt. She had never been powerless to help her own children when they'd been sick, but they had gotten into many dangers throughout their lives that had almost stopped her heart. She felt only empathy for this grieved mother. It would be no skin off her nose to help her. After all, a candle lost nothing by lighting another candle. She would lose nothing by helping the sick child, but would give him a new chance at life if she did. That meant everything.

They quickly left the market and made it to the edge of town, a decidedly more rustic area than the centre of trade for the common people. They were greeted at the door by a small girl whose wide steel blue eyes never left Azalea's form as soon as she was in sight. The girl was ushered inside and Azalea followed her further into the room, towards the back where a young boy coughed until he choked, lying supine on a roughly made bed.

She needed no prompting and rushed to his side, placing her hand on his forehead and feeling with magic what ailed him. It took a moment of careful concentration but Azalea sighed with relief when she realised she could heal him. The small dark-haired boy could be no older than four years old. He was dying, certainly, but not so much that he could not yet be healed by magic.

The boy opened brown eyes like his mother's and stared at her blearily. Azalea wondered if he was really seeing her.

"W-who're you?" he wheezed, then coughed, ignoring his mother's hushing for him to be still.

Running her fingers through his hair as she did so many years ago when her children were ill, Azalea smiled down at the small boy and replied. "My name's Azalea Peverell. I'm here to help you," she promised, concerned but not letting it show when the boy's exhaustion caused his eyes to roll back before he could respond.

"Can you—can you help him? Truthfully?" his mother begged quietly, trying not to be heard by her daughter. The girl was not deterred, though, and had quickly come to stand beside Azalea and watch her closely, astonished eyes lingering on her hair.

Azalea nodded and reached up to open the mokeskin pouch around her neck, ignoring the flabbergasted looks on the two females when she reached her hand and arm all the way into the deceptively small pouch and pulled out a single vial. She patiently fed it to the boy until it was drained, consoling him as he whined about the flavour. There was no sound, or light, or movement to indicate what she'd done, but the boy's mother gasped and his sister gaped when his breathing eased and his pallor retreated, and his body relaxed as it hadn't been able to before and he fell into an easy sleep.

She pulled her hands slowly away, put the vial back in her pouch, and rested her hands in her lap, then smiled softly down at the boy.

"He just needs to rest now. He will be well again," she assured them quietly, and glanced up at the pair. Both had wide eyes and were glancing between her and their sick family member, the silence heavy. Then the mother hesitantly reached across her boy's body, grasped his saviour's hands, and choked out her gratitude.

"Thank you. Thank you, my lady," she whispered passionately, squeezing her hands tightly. "I don't know what you gave him, but I know it was some kind of magic. Thank you for using it to save Ben. Thank you."

A tug on her sleeve directed her eyes to the little girl who'd watched her so diligently. "Thank you, milady," she added tremulously, nodding her messy brown head, lower lip trembling before she crawled up onto the bed beside her brother and hugged him close.

Touched by their gratitude, Azalea shook her head and gave them both a gentle smile. "Knowing he'll be well is all the thanks I need. I'm glad I could help," she said kindly.

Soon the mother was insisting she repay her with a meal and a roof for the night, once she discovered Azalea had no place to stay.

Later that evening as the whole family dined on broth and bread, the witch glanced out the window and caught sight of a raven. It quickly flew away.

.

She spent a month in what she learned to be winter town, outside Winterfell – the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter – before that very king summoned her to his hall. In that time she'd been busy seeing to all the ill she could, her uncanny, mystical ability to heal the unwell free of charge spreading to all of winter town in a day, and the castle and its residents the next. Azalea didn't mind that they all knew it was magic she used. They were cautious, and suspicious, but at the same time they seemed to revere her skill. They feared her too, until she met them and smiled and they felt blessed instead of cursed to have her among them. There were whispers that followed her, words speaking of green men and old gods. Little Ben's family were the ones to explain these things to her, the mother, father, and children her fiercest and first supporters. It was how she began to understand the world she'd walked into, and perhaps where the magic in this world came from, or at least where it was concentrated.

The king, his queen, and two other members of their household were the only ones to sit in the Great Hall when she arrived at the mammoth stone castle. It was austere and beautiful, like a frozen river or waterfall is beautiful. Powerful and magnificent and awe-inspiring in the way of natural wonders. The home of the Winter Kings left her filled with admiration, and the tingling she felt when she crossed into its boundaries reminded her of wizard's wards. She compared it to Hogwarts, if only because they were both giant stone constructions that still felt like home and warm despite the chill, with old magic saturating the rock. She smiled respectfully when she reached the royal couple and their men in the warm hall, folded her hands unthreateningly in front of her and waited for the king to speak.

"Azalea Peverell," he began, his eyes dark and watchful on her figure. "I have never heard the name before yet in a short time you've become as well-known to my people as I am. Rumour is you can bring the dead back to life. I know only of one other creature capable of such magic and that is not a favourable comparison for you."

Azalea's polite smile dropped and her brow furrowed in confusion. This was new information, very interesting information.

"Tell me, where do you hail from, and what is it you do?"

With confidence in her abilities if things turned sour, Azalea was honest in her reply.

"I came from out of the water in the godswood, my king," she said, causing all four faces to deepen in frowns, and maybe feeling a little dramatic standing in the ancient stone hall in front of a powerful king; she was a Marauder's daughter, after all, and had been well known for her nerve and cheek in her life as Azalea Potter. She tried not to smirk at their reactions, knowing by now that the godswood was a sacred place. "As for what I can do, I cannot raise the dead as you've heard but I can heal the sick."

It was silent for a moment before the king spoke again. "Heal the sick with magic."

Azalea inclined her head. "Yes, Your Grace."

The king's men moved to whisper to their monarch but it was the queen who caught her attention. She was still, but there was a twitch in her fingers and a restlessness in her eyes that indicated to the witch that the queen might have more investment in summoning her to the king's hall than she first thought.

The king waved off his men and looked back at her.

"There is a sick man in my service. If you can heal him I will believe your claims. If you fail to heal him, take your lies and leave Winterfell for good."

Azalea bowed to the man and watched as the queen quickly approached her.

"This way," she murmured, gesturing Azalea to follow her. "I will take you to him."

She followed the stern looking queen through the halls of Winterfell, passing servants who respectfully nodded their heads to their queen as they passed. Azalea smiled at them as well, nodding her head to some of the folk she recognised after having helped them or members of their family. They smiled back warmly and seemed to look on in concern at their queen as she led her further into the castle.

Soon enough they reached a chamber and the queen ushered her inside. Lying restlessly on the bed was an older man, his sheets damp with sweat despite the cool air. The queen flittered quickly to his side and ran her hand over his hair, whispering comforting words to him as his bleary eyes opened once she arrived. His eyes met her own and Azalea found herself sending the aching man a comforting smile. She hated to see people hurt.

The queen turned to her then, and addressed her.

"He was injured during a raid by ironborn reavers," she said quietly, glancing back as he closed his eyes. "He has a disease of the blood but there is nothing we have been able to do but ease his passing." She stood up and levelled Azalea with a look that reminded her uncannily of old professors that could turn into cats. "If you cannot help him, he will die."

Azalea held her stare and nodded solemnly.

"Then step aside, my queen, and let me do my work."

That day Azalea Peverell saved the life of the queen's beloved brother and cemented herself as a Stark friend, always welcome in the halls of Winterfell. It was as they were feasting that night in honour of her great deed that a raven flew into the hall. The musicians let their music drift to silence and the conversations ran dry as the bird circled low over the gathering and then finally alighted before the one who had given them cause to celebrate. It remained unmoved by the close proximity of people as only a trained bird can, and held an unflinching stare with the witch once it reached her. She'd noticed the bird following her since she'd arrived, and it seemed it was finally ready to engage her. It cawed suddenly, startling some of the people nearest to her, and hopped closer to Azalea until it reached her hand. Azalea held her palm out and did not flinch when it pecked her because her eyes had caught those of the raven and she felt a pull. There was magic in that bird, and the eyes were preternaturally clever.

Azalea smiled at the Starks and bid them goodbye and good health, and followed the black bird, letting it lead her out of Winterfell and into the land beyond.

.

Years she could not count had passed since she first arrived in Westeros. Most of that time had been spent beyond the Wall with the children of the forest. Her journey to meet them had led her north, past the Long Lake and into the Last Hearth, assisting the people there for a short while and avoiding the lord's wandering hands before she and her raven companion moved on. Castle Black came into focus long after she'd been awed by the Wall, the great stretch of ice that throbbed and pulsed with old magic so much so that she had to spend days in its shadow, just to breathe in and appreciate how incredible such strength was and reconcile the way it tingled her bones. She'd slipped through Castle Black like a ghost and stood on top of the Wall, gazing out onto both sides of the world and feeling smaller than she had in centuries. It was a good feeling, a humbling feeling, the height and air clearing her head and ordering her thoughts like nothing quite had before, and she found it difficult to leave. But leave she did, flying unaided down to the bottom of the other side of the Wall and following the raven further into the Lands of Always Winter.

She'd remained unmolested on her journey, if only because magic had been there to help her, but she'd still taken the time to greet those she'd met on her long road. The folk she passed on her trek beyond the Wall to where the raven led her had been a hearty people in a way she'd only heard in stories. Not always friendly, and not always welcoming, but the free folk that had accepted her to stay with them for a time had nevertheless offered her a unique wisdom into the world that the people south of the Wall had forgotten in ages past. She learned so much from the free folk and found their skinchanging magic fascinating, like a far more advanced form of the bond a witch or wizard shared with their familiar. Her journey with the raven had been delayed when she'd lingered with those she'd met and shared some of her own skills with them. They'd both feared and accepted more readily her talents than she imagined those south of the Wall might have, finding her ability to make fire and heal the sick most useful, but were in frightened awe of her gift to truly shapeshift as they'd only heard in ancient tales.

She moved on, though, after the third man had tried his luck at stealing her as was their custom, and the second man had tried to end her life in fear of what she was. Soon she'd met the ones that had called her so far north, the children of the forest, and lived with them while they taught her their ways and she satisfied their curiosity of her. The children were a small people with a fae-like beauty that Azalea could only find stunning. Her translation spell, that had never failed her before, had not worked on the language spoken by the children. Azalea was not been disappointed, though, and had in fact been delighted. Their language had been the most beautiful thing she'd heard since Fawkes's song, full of natural sounds like whistling winds and bubbling brooks, rustling leaves and skipping stones. Some spoke the Old Tongue of the free folk, though, and in time she learned to communicate using their special language. Azalea had spent most of her life travelling and learning what the Earth and its people had to teach her, but in her time with the children she learned more from one people than she ever had before, and more from one teacher than she ever expected to again.

Soon she felt she'd learned all she could, though, and the children had felt the same. She'd never had a talent for Divination and had no First Men or green men blood, so their greenseers had not much to teach her about their talents beyond how to interpret dreams, if at all. She had a talent for skinchanging, though, using a mutated, advanced form of Legilimency to master the skill that came more naturally to those who inherited it, and learned to communicate with animals in a way she never had before except with snakes. The children offered to teach her how to control the minds of men as well, but it sounded too much like the Imperius Curse so Azalea refused, thinking it enough that she could get inside their heads; she refused to take away their free will too. For her it was sufficient that she could contact the children through the weirwood trees if she ever had the need. The smaller race taught her histories and legends, and gave her warnings of monsters that had come before her time. She finally learned of the Others, the beings that could raise the dead to serve them, and understood why the King in the North had been so leery of her at first. The children warned her that, though the creatures had not been seen in living memory, it did not mean they were gone for good. Azalea took this to heart, recalling a wizard the world had claimed as dead, who'd come back time and again against seemingly all possibility. Some creatures were patient, and those were the most dangerous of all, insidious things that would creep behind their prey in the dark and run them through before they could gather strength enough to fight back.

It was with the children that she learned to use a bow. In a reverent ceremony to their old gods, they'd laid before her two exquisitely crafted items. The first was a bow made of the white weirwood tree. It stretched tall and, though the string was stiff in the beginning, soon enough Azalea had learned to use it with no modest skill, a Gemino Curse ensuring she'd always have the favoured obsidian-headed arrows of the children in her quiver. The second item the children had presented her with was a stunning blade made of that same carefully crafted volcanic rock. Never in her life had she seen such care taken with the material, her own obsidian dagger for potion making a crude tool in comparison. She'd taken out her old goblin-made silver sword then, and laid it next to the black. Together the pair seemed to balance like dark and light, both equally stunning and deadly. She hadn't needed lessons in the sword, however, which was for the best because the children had no talent with the weapon, unlike their supreme skill with their long-range weapons of choice. Even so, it was still the beginning of the end for her stay with the children, and a few short years later she was journeying south to see the lands below the Wall.

.

Azalea wiped her brow clean of sweat and sat back on her knees to admire her work. The garden she maintained with the generosity of the Gardener kings had grown over the years from a little plot of land she'd purchased with her own gold, smoothed along by the then-king's favour and curiosity, into a sprawling acreage that was tended to diligently while she was away by the personal gardeners of the royal family themselves, men she had trained herself to handle her magical plants safely. The management of her garden was also done free of charge, because in return Azalea had presented the Reach proper with strange and exotic plants no one in Westeros had ever heard tale of before. This in turn increased the grand reputation of the Reach's bountiful grounds, and the many potions Azalea created from the once dry and dead plants and seeds in her mokeskin pouch were given to the fertile kingdom with first priority. It was a small price to pay in return for having her plants diligently tended to by the royal gardeners all year round, enabling her to travel freely and be assured that her future ingredients were growing strong in the care of Highgarden.

Azalea adored the Reach proper. She had taken great pleasures in wandering over its hills and in its woods, breathing in the sweet scents of its flourishing meadows and trailing her fingers through the grasses of its vast fields. The rivers gave her a sense of direction and progress during her off-road travels and had led her through many farms with hardworking people, and into quaint villages and prosperous market towns. Thanks in great part to its position as a nexus of trade and resultant cultural melting pot, the mills in the Reach also produced some of the sweetest and most diverse breads in Westeros, a luxury she happily indulged in whenever she passed one in her travels. It was a land full of green grasses and golden fields of wheat, flowers of all colours spilling across the land like living waterfalls, with the rivers and lakes themselves producing their own bounty. It seemed that wherever Azalea went she could find a bloom or trees of green, the seasons of autumn and winter hardly appearing to extend their chilly fingers across the realm. As a result, the southwest of Westeros always felt like it was breathing spring, the bees producing a musical backdrop drone in her ears as they spread pollen and made sweet honey. It was so easy to see life in the Kingdom of the Reach, the bountiful produce and lush fields of flowers forming a realm of youth, vitality and renewal in essence. The dedication that the populous in the Reach had for pleasure and all things creative made the rich realm a delight for Azalea to visit every time.

Over the many years since she'd left the Lands of Always Winter, Azalea had travelled throughout most kingdoms – learning their customs and cultures, how the Andals differed from the First Men, and the old gods from the new – and spent all that time lending her helping hand to those that needed it. It had not been her intention but she supposed it was inevitable, that in those years she had gained an almost unparalleled fame throughout the kingdoms. It had started innocent enough, with her name and skills only a legend in the north, a story old women told young children, of the woman who appeared out of the godswood and saved the King in the North's good-brother from certain death. Of course, in the past hundred or so years, that tale had been embellished to the point that it was told that she'd been sent by the old gods themselves and raised the king's good-brother from the dead, and singlehandedly battled off a plague from Winterfell that would have claimed all its people and ended the line of the Winter Kings for good. It had made her laugh and she'd let it be, but her travels around the country had only increased her fame and seemingly given weight to the old tale of her first coming instead of dissuading it.

Azalea let her reflections lull her into a daydream, and hummed as she picked out the last of her dittany herb, adding it into her mokeskin pouch to await consumption or potion brewing. She had introduced many useful and dangerous plants to the Gardeners and their subjects, the mandrake being one they found most fascinating, but dittany was an enduring favourite. The powerful little herb was as magical as she was in their eyes, the consumption of it raw able to heal shallow wounds in moments. So popular was it that, although the royal family had initially wanted to market the restorative, it had quickly spread its seeds away from Highgarden and was not an uncommon herb to be seen growing wild in the fields. The risk of infection in this world was present, so the little miracle herb was a blessing to many people indeed. Azalea would deny that she went against the king's ruling and had any hand in ensuring that the wind transported the seeds across the realm, but every time she saw the dittany herb growing by the side of the road her lips quirked in a secret, rascally smile. She was so consumed by her own humour, laughing under her breath, that she didn't notice the approaching men until they'd stopped beside her.

The ages old witch with the ever youthful face turned her head to see over her shoulder and was greeted by the sight of the High Steward of Highgarden and a begging brother of the Faith.

"Hello, Ser Leo," she greeted the Tyrell man with cheer, smoothly moving to her feet and patting the knees of her dress down without concern for the dirt on her hands. "Brother," she added politely, nodding at her fellow wanderer. "Enjoying a stroll about the gardens, are we?"

Ser Leo inclined his head respectfully and replied. "I apologise for disturbing your afternoon, my lady, but the brother says he has travelled far to see you and has refused our alms until he speaks with you."

Azalea turned her head to the godsworn and smiled modestly, taking note of the way he seemed to hold himself tall if slightly stooped with age and was covered in dirt from the road. He was an older fellow, past middle age but not yet too old to travel. His skin was worn a light brown from his time in the sun and his face was creased with lines. Azalea was pleased to note the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth, though. She smiled at him more warmly as he opened his mouth and began to speak.

"Lady Peverell, it is an honour to meet you. My name is Devan."

Reaching forward and grasping his hand, Azalea inclined her head towards the man. "A pleasure to meet you, Brother Devan. I hope your travels haven't been too harsh on you. I know very well how the road can be," she related to him, pleased when his smile widened and his eyes lit up. She was genuinely concerned for what the road might have offered him in the way of danger. It hadn't been long at all since the territorial dispute between three Dornish kings and two from the riverlands, and before that even the near-successful conquer of the stormlands by the Reach and the Lannister's opportunistic invasion of its southern neighbour that halted it. The borders between kingdoms were much like they had been before but there were still many dispossessed and destitute as a lingering result of the bloody conflicts, and that meant many more desperate people willing to do dangerous things.

"Less harsh than some and more than others, my lady," he admitted fairly, squeezing her hand before both let go, "but all in all a blessed pursuit. I had hoped for many years that my wanderings would one day coincide with yours, if the Seven permitted it, and today they have." He smiled eagerly and his wrinkles became greatly pronounced, his expression warming exponentially.

Azalea laughed good-naturedly, flattered by the simple joy that meeting her stirred in him. Still smiling, she turned to the High Steward and dismissed him.

"Thank you for showing him the way here, Ser Leo. I do believe that Brother Devan and I will manage quite well on our own if you have other duties to be seeing to."

With a reserved yet grateful smile, Ser Leo nodded. "If you have no more need of me, my lady, then I will take my leave," he agreed. "Brother," he added courteously before he departed the garden back to the great castle's main keep.

Azalea turned back to the elder and smiled politely. "Would you care to walk with me, brother?" she invited, tilting her head. "The gardens are delightful in the afternoon, and admittedly some of my plants are a bit more aggressive at this time," she chuckled, overlooking his curious and slightly alarmed expression as she anthropomorphised her plants. "It would do our safety and our tempers very good to move further towards the less hostile flowers."

The begging brother was quick and easy to agree to her suggestion, and the pair began retreating from the magical garden towards the mundane but no less beautiful gardens of the king.

"What brought you to see me, brother?" Azalea asked as they ambled through the sweet-smelling flowers, glancing over at the slightly taller man in curiosity. It wasn't unusual in the least for one of the people to meaningfully seek her out. Many people had done so over the years, some she'd met well with and then with whom she'd parted ways, and others who had been her companions for a time. Very rarely did any have ill intent towards her, but it had happened more than once. Before she let herself sink into memories both fond and blue, Azalea turned back to the godsworn brother and listened to his reply.

Devan smiled whimsically and looked out across the colourful blossoms, away from the castle and towards the horizon. "Truth be told, my lady, I wanted to meet the one who had inspired me."

He caught her attention with his admittance, it being the most sincere a member of the Faith of the Seven had ever been with her. Like everyone else, the devotees of the Seven Who Are One were as versified in their responses to her as those less pious than the godsworn. During her learnings of the Andal faith she had encountered many different types of faithful. While they were awed by her, there were many still who had been hostile and fearful in their treatment of her. Like those in the north, many in the south had adopted her into their faith like she was godsent. These were mostly smallfolk, though, people who had often never received any gift or good favour from the ruling classes or the wealthy septons who mostly kept to their septs. It was unsurprising they took her up like their people's champion, considering all she did to protect them, nurture them, and bless them in her own way. It was part of the reason the ones who were higher in the secular rank of the Faith were often first anxious of her, as though she might judge them like the Father and find them unworthy or otherwise take their comfortable position and wealth for herself. They warmed up to her when she clarified her intentions, but it was tiresome to experience and she more often than not avoided the higher ranked men and women of the Faith and learned from the faithful who had their roots among the common people. Azalea found their humility much more palatable.

"How did I inspire you, brother?" she asked, flattered, smiling gently as the begging brother fiddled with the small metal bowl around his neck, his nerves evident.

"You see, my mother, she always said I was blessed," he began, turning to her with wide, wonder-filled eyes as he continued. "You were the one to deliver me, my lady. Our village was small but my mother gave you shelter before the folk realised who it was you were. She said it felt as though the gods were directing her to you and so offered you lodging. All my life I've grown up on stories of you. Your kindness, your fairness, your generosity, and your power. My mother said that you blessed me when I was born, a whispered prayer over my still bloody head, to grant me good fortune and keep me safe throughout my life. I've spent my years wandering in the hopes we would cross paths once more, but I've never feared the road even in times of war," he declared self-assuredly, with no reservation in his eyes, "because I knew your gift would keep me protected. Mostly I wanted to wander and help people just the same as you. You are an inspiration to all of us, Lady Peverell, and it seems I've finally done enough of the Seven's work for them to reward me with meeting you for a second time. Truly there is no greater reward for my faith than to meet the living embodiment of it."

Azalea hardly knew what to say, uncomfortable by his conviction of her part in the Faith. She had a faint recollection of approximately half a century ago, arriving in a small town during a heavy evening downpour. Her hood had been up so any of the folk looking out their windows wouldn't have recognised her, but there had been a heavily pregnant woman who had rushed out of her tiny home, gripped her wrist and beckoned her inside. The memory came clearer to her the longer she focused on it, and a smile bloomed on her face as brightly as the famous golden roses of Highgarden.

"Janna," she murmured, noticing the brother gasp lightly and turn excited eyes from the gardens to her. "Your mother's name was Janna. You're Devy," she grinned, laughing as the boy grown old glanced away in slight embarrassment as the nickname left her lips.

"I'm humbled that you remember, my lady, but no one calls me Devy anymore," he muttered, trying to affect a polite smile but not quite succeeding due to the grimace that would not leave his face.

Azalea was charmed, and the pair spent their afternoon wandering the royal gardens, sharing stories of their travels. Devan expressed his desire to travel with her, if she was obliged, and Azalea agreed to the proposition. That evening over dinner, with Devan humbled to be sitting at the table of the king as her special guest, Azalea admitted to having no definite plans for her next destination, but had thought to start in the general direction of Lannisport. It was then that Devan admitted to an ulterior motive for requesting to accompany her. He wanted to share the dedication and faith she inspired in him with the High Septon of the Faith himself, and had tentatively asked her if she would be willing to join him on his way to Oldtown and the Starry Sept. Azalea had hesitated then, having little desire to see the top ranking member of the Faith himself. She could only recall how other septons of other wealthy septs had treated her like a rich leper, greedy as they coveted her yet repulsed by what she might carry with her. She had never been defined or labelled within the Faith of the Seven, and that made her an unknown. The fact she had awesome power only made them more cautious. So for Devan, with all the enthusiasm in his heart, to suddenly admit to wanting to present her to the High Septon was very disconcerting to the woman who helped people without lust for recognition.

"I don't consider that such a good idea, Devan," she murmured, the pair having become familiar enough over the latter half of the day to use familiar names, though Devan still insisted on referring to her deferentially. "I'm not looking for accolades from the head of your order."

"That's not at all what I meant, my lady!" the brother was quick to assure her, his palms coming up above the dining table in a gesture of refutation. "I found it so fortunate that I was passing through Highgarden at the same time as you because I had intended to travel to see the High Septon and address your position in the Faith with him myself. I've been on this journey for over a month now and had no knowledge you were here." He smiled then, the broad smile of a man whose faith had been rewarded, while Azalea struggled to reconcile his meaning when he spoke of her position in his eyes and in his faith. "I was praying to the Seven that my feet be swift and my purpose true, so that I may speak with the High Septon all the sooner and that he would hear my words with grace. And then I overheard along the road that you were in Highgarden, right in my path. The Seven led us both here at the same time, my lady," he preached, his belief and his excitement lighting his eyes with fervency. "I believe it is the Seven's will that we both met now, at this time, as I gave myself this purpose, the Seven's purpose."

His enthusiasm was such that Azalea couldn't bear to refuse him. So she humoured him and agreed to at least travel to Oldtown with the brother. Azalea supposed that it was possible that something or someone had set them on these paths that crossed. Azalea believed in coincidence, but she also knew very well how real fate could be. It wasn't quite that she believed that the Seven Who Are One were real, more so that she had given her time and deference to the old gods beyond the Wall and felt it only fair she give equal attention to the new gods in their centre seat of worship too. Azalea believed in death over all, and she felt she would be a fool not to, but she also freely admitted that for all her ages of wisdom and knowledge she did not know close to everything. Even more so in this new world there were new ways, new laws, new science and new magic to discover, and new gods too. Azalea didn't know enough and wasn't familiar enough with the world, however long she had been a part of it, to say for certain what deities were real and what were not, and she doubted anyone really was.

Soon Devan and Azalea became companions as they followed the roseroad south towards the mouth of the Honeywine River. They spent their time helping the needy, sharing stories with the many children they passed and many of the adults too, and admiring the lands their feet took them through. Devan hadn't lied when he said the road had never bothered him and was as at ease on it as Azalea herself. He was a man of good humour and good company and, fortunately for Azalea's temperament, he'd mostly stopped singing her praises so their journey south continued more as friends than deity and disciple. It had been a long time since she'd visited Oldtown, in fact it had been one of the first places she had chosen to go once she returned from beyond the Wall, but those years ago her legend had been rumour at best, and it was one of the rarer times where she was nobody special and just another face. At the very least, Azalea supposed, this time the Citadel might welcome her in and she wouldn't need to resort to disguising herself to see their scrolls and books.

.

The Hightower on Battle Isle came into sight long before the pair reached the grand and ancient city of Oldtown, the lighthouse a beacon even to those not approaching from the water. It was a beautiful place, old beyond written record, and the diversity of people, cultures and faiths endlessly fascinated the wandering witch. The rich city was a mecca of trade from all over Westeros, the Summer Islands, and all across Essos, and it was the centre for all learning in Westeros. The city, for all its size and station as the most populous city in the country, was a mostly organised location free of slums. There were poor areas certainly, but the layout of the city ensured there was breathing room for all, and the plethora of stone meant there was a sturdiness and durability in the dwellings of those who called Oldtown home that granted a security less permanent materials did not. It was much like a labyrinth, and had all the allure of a city you could truly lose your feet in. Azalea adored it for this reason, and for the charming cobbled streets and waterways similar to the long-standing Italian city on the water in her old world. There was something new around every corner in Oldtown, new guilds to discover and markets to explore, and that was captivating.

Azalea and Devan arrived in the city without fanfare. Devan was eager to head immediately to the Starry Sept but Azalea convinced him to rest after their travels and suggested they could see the High Septon in the morning. Reluctantly, he agreed, and they found themselves an inn paid for with Azalea's coin. Azalea wouldn't have minded going about her stay in Oldtown unrecognised, but Devan was innocently spreading word of her arrival before they'd reached the inn, like an excited boy who couldn't keep his adventures to himself. So that evening as they had dinner in the tavern on the ground floor of the inn, the owner of the establishment spent most of his night pushing together more and more tables alongside Azalea and Devan's. Of course, the man hadn't minded all that much, tickled to be hosting Azalea Peverell and reaping the benefits of having a full house of people all keen to buy ale and wine for the wanderer and their table companions. Azalea inspired people to be generous, and many that night took it to heart and almost ran the tavern dry of spirits.

Their seeing the High Septon the next day was not meant to be, however, as when they arrived at the Starry Sept around midday the attending faithful had informed them that His High Holiness was sequestered away in prayer, and had been since the night before. They had no way of knowing when he'd be available and had promised to inform him of their desire to speak with him when he emerged. Devan was disheartened but Azalea took it as a blessing. She truly didn't want to meet with the leader of the Faith and have Devan profess her blessedness to His High Holiness himself. It just felt in bad taste to her, so she suggested that Devan stay with his other godsworn in the great sept, and visit the three others in Oldtown as he desired to do, while she explored the other parts of the city on her own.

She was drawn to the Citadel before even the harbour and its broad variety of races, cultures, and personalities. It was in part in honour of a bright best friend of long ago, who had adored books and knowledge as much as she had her loved ones, and also because in all her years Azalea had developed a great love of the written word herself. The complex of buildings, towers and domes that comprised the Citadel stretched over the Honeywine with arching stone bridges home themselves to numerous houses and stalls. With blossoming excitement, Azalea made her way into the seat of the maesters, passing the gates guarded by the two tall sphinxes of green stone. They were impressive sentinels, even considering that she'd seen the real creature for herself in times long past.

She spent her early afternoon browsing the Scribe's Hearth for books she'd not seen before and admiring the beauty of the most expensive maps of the world. Several stalls she'd stopped at had housed acolytes who had recognised her from the stories, and she'd spent an even longer afternoon humouring their endless string of questions. Maesters, when they'd heard of her arrival, had come from around the Citadel to engage her in conversation and their exchanges had been mostly full of good-natured if intense debate. The maesters were all well-read men and, although she disliked that they did not allow women into their order, Azalea appreciated their intelligent and stimulating conversations. She wanted something from the Order of Maesters, though, and she suspected only the archmaesters of the Conclave could grant her the favour.

Azalea desired to study the books of the Citadel freely, without the employment of magical deception to gain access to the more rare and obscure texts. It made her feel slightly guilty, but Azalea was not above using her fame to sway the Conclave. The issue lied with their opinions regarding her magic. The maesters were foremost students of physical disciplines, and her magic and magic in general was not something they understood well, if at all. There were occasionally maesters who chose to study for their Valyrian steel link but they were few and far between. Like the septons, the maesters viewed her as an unknown and, although her knowledge was great and respected even by the most traditionally-minded maesters, she was still considered dangerous and to be handled with prudence. She had planned to ingratiate herself to the maesters over the course of several days but a novice had scurried out of the stone buildings and come up to her bearing a summons from the archmaester of magic and the occult. Azalea had taken it like a sign and that evening had dinner with the curious, introverted man.

Archmaester Stefyn had many questions for her, most of which she answered to the best of her ability, but still some that she cautiously sidestepped. He may have been the only archmaester to show her favour but Azalea had lived a long time and knew better than to put all her eggs in the one basket, or trust a stranger with all her secrets. His rooms where they dined, like the man in possession of the Valyrian steel mask, rod and ring himself, were busy inside, and dark save for a single candle. Expressing her curiosity, Archmaester Stefyn had responded and described his initiation to becoming a maester and how he lit the black glass candle in the dark vault with magic. Before she could ask, the old man had blown out the single candle on the table they shared for dinner and lit it again with a wave of his hand. Azalea was excited by his display of power, magic something she knew was in this world but had only ever felt and not seen. In reciprocation she modestly displayed some of her skill and made the candle float above their heads.

She did describe to him her purpose for visiting the Citadel, however, and the archmaester promised to present her petition to the Conclave. They'd parted amiably and Azalea had returned to the inn late enough that the tavern was almost empty. While she waited for the archmaesters to decide whether to share their knowledge with her she explored the harbour, admiring the craftsmanship on the great statue of Lord Lymond Hightower overlooking the harbour. It was while she was stood in its shadow that she was approached by two members of the Faith Militant, Warrior's Sons who explained they were to be her escort during her stay, their orders from the Starry Sept. They were not the first Faith Militant she'd met, having travelled with both Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows more than once in the past. The knights had treated her with respect, but these were men who served the High Septon directly and she wondered if they were there to escort her as an honour or as wardens.

She didn't let her worry linger in their presence, though, and continued to enjoy her exploration, visiting the Thieves' Market and Ragpycker's Wynd with the knights in rainbow cloaks. The men softened from their rigidness as she engaged them throughout the day, and by the afternoon when she returned to the inn and bid them good evening all three found themselves reluctant to part ways so soon. But part they did, and as she sat to dinner with Devan that evening and shared stories with him of their separate days a missive from the Citadel arrived for her, requesting her presence with the Conclave the next day. It was as exciting and terrifying as receiving her Hogwarts letter again, and filled with just as much unknown. Azalea couldn't wait.

.

Stood in the hall with the archmaesters of the Conclave staring at her from their perches nearby, Azalea almost sighed. They were posturing and she knew it, Stefyn's familiar face not making her feel any more at ease. She'd attended early that morning, as they'd requested, and had been left waiting for over an hour as they assembled and spoke among themselves. They reminded her uncannily of the Wizengamot, old men in positions of power deciding the lives of those who fell under their jurisdiction. Although separate to the order, Azalea was involving herself with them and inviting their opinions when she chose to negotiate with them for the opportunity to access their texts. They were, unsurprisingly, making things difficult for her. The archmaesters wanted to study her, document her knowledge and experiences, and were being very recalcitrant when it came to returning the favour. They were guarding their books like an old biddy guarded her bags, and Azalea was growing weary of their reluctance and indecision.

"In return for your generosity I can offer you more than the dictation of my experiences," she offered, hoping this would be enough, because if they asked much more of her she would wash her hands of them and just sneak in again.

"And what would that be, Lady Peverell?" asked one of the archmaesters at the front, not unkindly but with no real warmth either. If she was not mistaken, he was wearing the black iron adornments of ravenry. Azalea wouldn't mind visiting the Isle of Ravens and its weirwood tree.

Smiling benignly, she told them. "You have hundreds of books that will take your scribes at least as many years to copy for your own collections. I can do it in moments."

Murmurs and frowns swept over the archmaesters and only Stefyn appeared unsurprised even though he had no true knowledge of the extent of her abilities. They spoke quietly amongst themselves for a short time longer before a different man spoke up.

"If you speak the truth then you will not be opposed to giving us a demonstration," the old man with springy white hair said leadingly, bushy brows raised high on his forehead.

Azalea smiled.

"Not at all, archmaester."

One of the men quickly produced a small pocketbook from his robes and before their eyes she duplicated it exactly, the man flipping through both books in wonder and passing them around for all to see. With excited and some greedy expressions, the Conclave as a whole accompanied her to another hall, this one full of scribes hard at work, painstakingly copying new and old texts onto fresh parchment, waiting to be bound in beautiful leathers. They made their way through the hall, watching in wonder as she repaired some books only being copied due to the age of the originals, duplicated other texts that the scribes were making copies of, and astonishing them all the more when she assembled piles of parchment that some scribes were intending to make into books and created beautiful binds of leather for the newly polished manuscripts. Azalea could admit to herself that she was showing off a bit, enjoying the exclamations of wonder that never ceased as she and her audience made their way through the halls. She also only intended to do this once, careful of unbalancing the trade that belonged to the scribes and their beautiful works of art. She didn't think it would hurt to do it just the one time.

Once it may have been, but Azalea spent most of her afternoon being led about the Citadel and directed to the tomes the archmaesters wanted her to give her attentions to. She lost count of how many scrolls and books and other texts she mended or copied, but imagined it was easily in the hundreds. She was not physically or magically tired by the end of the day, but she was mentally exhausted from her efforts to ingratiate herself to the archmaesters of Oldtown in the hope of winning their favour so she could see what she wanted to see. By the end of the day, as the sun was beginning its descent in the sky, she got her wish, and the archmaesters told her that, if she gave the same treatment to the ancient texts she wished to browse in their most coveted collections, she was invited to study to her heart's content.

The following day, once more escorted by the Warrior's Sons from her inn to the Citadel, Azalea eagerly and gratefully entered through the gate guarded by the green sphinxes and directed herself immediately to Archmaester Stefyn's most guarded magical and occult texts. She thought it would be a neutral enough place to start her perusal, with a subject she was no novice at herself. Over the course of that day, and the days to follow, Azalea explored the collections that were held most dear by the Citadel. She did not do so without interruption, however, and was caught between studying the scrolls and books that interested her and being interviewed by several different archmaesters. The lower ranking maesters also vied for her attention, quills and parchment held ready, but their superiors ruled most of her concentration, wishing to unravel her mystery for themselves and claim the commendation from the other scholars that would follow their so-called exclusive discoveries. To hasten the process along, as she spoke separately to the masters of different areas of study she spelled their quills to self-ink and write on their own as the living freely conversed. She later forgot to undo the spell that kept the quills producing the perfect amount of ink without an inkpot and, for centuries after, the few quills she had charmed were given to each archmaester who reached that rank alongside the mask, ring and rod of their position.

She spoke to Archmaester Stefyn again, as well as the archmaesters of healing, history and herblore. She was flattered to see the herblore archmaester arrive to their appointment with stacks of notes on her many plants in Highgarden, the maesters there over the years having taken great pleasure in studying her plants. Other maesters too took the time to hear her stories, one novice in particular fascinated by her more fanciful stories and devotedly ensuring every word was written down. One day he would be an archmaester, considered an authority on her legend, most famous for his book _The Grand Adventures of Azalea Peverell_ , a favourite among the nobility and their children before bed, and his lesser known book _The Tales of Azalea the Undying_ , a reimagining of Beedle the Bard's famous stories which she still held in her mokeskin pouch, close to her heart.

Though she enjoyed her days among the books and eager acolytes and archmaesters alike, Azalea slipped away on her third afternoon to take some breathing room for herself. Things in the Citadel had worked out more wonderfully than she had hoped and although there were some who approached her with arrogance and greed, there were enough men who were genuinely pleased to work with her that it all seemed worthwhile. She still tired of the attention, however, and finally decided one afternoon to visit the Isle of Ravens and the weirwood tree, as she'd days before desired to.

The oldest building in the Citadel on the island connected to the Honeywine's eastern bank was artistically and entirely naturally covered in moss and vines, but it was the ravens she noticed first. They could be heard at all hours in and around the Citadel, their caws echoing against the stone walls and towers that roosted them. The weirwood tree stretched tall in the castle's yard, blood red leaves and white trunk making the dark as night ravens appear all the darker as they roosted on and around the tree, filling the yard and perching on every flat stone available. As Azalea approached the tree their cawing became louder and she allowed herself to listen to the birds as the children had taught her, understanding the sounds they made They were all interested in her, curious about the new face. Curiously, but unsurprisingly, they seemed to be aware that she had power. More concerned were they by whether she would feed them or not, though.

Azalea chuckled to herself as she reached the tree and sat herself in-between the roots, burrowing slightly into the crevice created by the old tree. She idly studied the separate rookeries for the white and black ravens and allowed herself to drift away while listening to the creatures gossip with each other. She had drifted off into a peaceful daze, connecting to the weirwood tree beneath and around her, when she was interrupted by a sharp and pointed caw right in her ear. Azalea gasped and jerked forward, not having noticed the bird's approach. It was a white raven, larger than its dark cousins, sat on the root directly beside her head. Its black eyes watched her keenly, the creature seeming content not to make another sound now that it had her attention.

Calming and feeling herself fill with gentle amusement at the bird's audacity, Azalea lightly extended her awareness to the creature and saw in its mind profound curiosity.

Smiling, she introduced herself to the preternaturally intelligent creature.

"Hello, beautiful," she murmured, leaning back against the tree and settling back down into its roots. "My name's Azalea. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The white bird tilted its head and hopped forward, jumping off the root and flapping its wings quickly as it landed on her knee. Its dark and incredibly clever eyes returned to her face as it settled. It felt like a human was looking at her, the gaze was so observant. As a matter of fact, the bird reminded her keenly of a hippogriff, the same pride and intelligence in this breed of avian. She knew it would be unwise to offend the sharp creature.

The bird sat with her that afternoon, alternating between watching her with keen eyes and letting its eyes close in bliss as she stroked its snowy feathers. It was comforting to sit amongst the birds by the ancient tree and spend quiet time petting an intelligent avian. She had sudden flashbacks to an old owl and felt morose at the reminder. The bird in her lap refused to let her stay that way, seeming to sense when she was becoming glum, and would scoldingly nip her fingers when they ceased their stroking. The bird had no way of knowing that the familiarity of its reaction only made her miss her first owl more.

Azalea was unaware, but soon it was time for the evening feeding, and the acolytes began entering the rookeries to attend to the birds. Every raven except the one that had settled with her flew en masse towards their respective towers, until it was only she and her bird still in the castle's yard. This was where the archmaester found them. The master of ravenry had not been as taken with her as his peers, having not seen much she could offer his area of study, and was unimpressed when he found her with the large bird beneath the tree.

"Lady Peverell," he greeted her neutrally once he reached the tree. "Had I known you possessed an interest in the ravens of the Citadel I would have offered to accompany you as you explored."

Comfortably relaxed as a result of her afternoon with the birds and the weirwood tree, Azalea replied honestly.

"Truthfully I was interested in finding a quiet place to be alone with my thoughts," she confessed, smiling self-depreciatingly.

The archmaester paused and looked at her with mild incredulity.

"And you came to the Isle of Ravens, where the birds chatter night and day, and swarm upon any new face?"

Azalea could see his point and laughed, jostling the white raven on her lap to its displeasure and causing it to become disgruntled. Still chuckling, she attempted to coo at the bird, and stroked her fingers apologetically down its breast. It seemed to pacify the creature, and it settled down again.

"The chatter of birds is a different kind of noise to the chatter of men," she justified, noticing the faint expression of agreement briefly pass across the archmaester's face. "Although birds love to gossip just as much as we do," she added in good humour.

"If only it were so we could still understand them. No one has been able to speak with the ravens since the children of the forest," the elder huffed in displeasure. "If you believe such tales, of course," he added.

"It was the children of the forest who taught me," Azalea revealed, smiling wider when the man's face dropped into a flabbergasted expression. He seemed lost for words for a minute before he composed himself enough to respond.

"You lie," he grit out haltingly, eyes disbelieving although, after all the incredible things he'd seen her do, the archmaester admitted he wouldn't be surprised if she was telling the truth.

Azalea shook her head and rebutted gently. "I do not. They still exist, just beyond the Wall. They taught me to speak to the animals as they do, and your ancestors once did." Her hand had halted its petting again and so, unsurprisingly, the large white raven had pecked her hand. Azalea smiled amusedly at the clever creature and teasingly added, "They really are quite a chatty bunch." She was rewarded by the avian twitching its head towards her, giving her the distinct impression it was insulted when it snapped its beak and ruffled its feathers, then turned its gaze haughtily away. Azalea was delighted.

The archmaester was silent as he pondered her words, observant eyes studying the way the ancient woman interacted with the temperamental bird.

"And what … do they say?" he asked hesitantly, feeling as though her eyes were piecing him straight through to his soul when she raised her emerald green irises to his brown. He suddenly and foolishly felt as though his common colour was unworthy of meeting hers before he shook the irrational notion away.

Then her eyes creased as she smiled, and the green twinkled like light on the precious stone, and he was charmed.

"Mostly they talk about how ridiculous they think we are," she laughed, throwing her head back, totally unashamed by her joy. The master of ravenry suddenly and fiercely felt she never should be.

.

The following days Azalea returned to the rookeries and gave their custodian the attention she'd bestowed on his peers earlier in the week, and spent hours conversing with him and answering his questions, attempting to teach him how to speak with the birds though his success was limited. The white raven that had approached her that first day on the isle had also taken it upon itself to become Azalea's minder. Azalea was so fiercely and passionately reminded of her very first friend that she took to calling the bird Hedwig, which it seemed to appreciate considering none of the others had their own names. Over those few days, Azalea and Hedwig became a regular sight, and it was cause for question whenever the two weren't seen together, the proud bird perched nobly on her shoulder. Though the white ravens were especially valuable to the archmaester and the Citadel, none commented on how Azalea seemed to adopt the bird, and yet had anyone asked she would have said the bird adopted her.

Such was her joy over those few days that it came as a surprise when she realised that she and Devan had already been in Oldtown for a week. So much had happened in so short a time, and Azalea was only startled out of her own head when a summons came for her straight from the Starry Sept.

Azalea had put the meeting with the High Septon out of her mind, especially while she'd been so caught up with the Citadel, so it unnerved her when she received the writ from him. Devan, it turned out, was not invited to their meeting, but he expressed no disappointment, saying that he was glad to have been the guide that brought her to the leader of the Faith. He was the tool of the Seven, he said, and he was honoured to be their instrument.

So Azalea attended a service of the Seven the next morning and lingered after the attendees were dismissed. She took that time to study and admire the beautiful architecture of the sept. The walls were black marble and set the arched stained glass windows off in a kaleidoscope of brilliant colour when the sun shined through the arches. There were seven windows on the seven walls for the seven aspects of the Seven Who Are One, each depicting a representation of the Seven. They were stunningly beautiful with the sunlight shining through them, causing rainbows to dance on the dark marble floor. Azalea found it breathtaking, and was suddenly inspired to make the Seven in each of their windows come alive like the wizard portraits of old. She was transfixed by the image of the Crone hunched in her window, no less beautiful than the image of the Maiden. Her fingers were twitching with temptation when soft footfalls announced the presence of someone behind her.

The High Septon was an old man with lines decorating his face like a spider's web, more progressed in age than she had expected him to be. He was almost painfully thin and his magnificent robes looked to be several sizes too big. Even his large crystal crown, sparkling in the light from the windows and reflecting the rainbow of colours back into the room, appeared as though it threatened to topple him over from the weight. But for all that, the man's grey eyes were clear and lucid, and his hands did not shake when he reached to grip hers.

"Welcome to the Starry Sept, Azalea Peverell," he greeted her, his voice shockingly high and musical. It was a sweet voice, in total honesty, and Azalea wondered why he hadn't sounded that way when he'd conducted his earlier service. His voice then had been average but had carried across the sept, thanks in great part to the acoustics. Choosing to disregard her surprise, Azalea responded.

"Thank you, High Septon," she smiled, squeezing his hands when he squeezed hers. "I hope this isn't inconveniencing you any. I know Brother Devan was rather insistent that we meet."

The elder released her hands and waved one of his own in the air.

"Not at all, my lady," he assured her, smiling benignly. "The brother was following the will of the Seven. Sometimes it speaks more strongly in some than others. I only wonder why you took so long to visit this sept."

Azalea opened her mouth and paused before speaking. "I had not realised I was expected," she alleged slowly.

The thin man's mouth twitched quickly and he turned his luminous grey stare on her. Azalea was once more startled by him, this time for the eerie familiarity she felt looking into his protuberant eyes. Faint memories of a girl named for the moon rose to just below the surface of her recollection before the High Septon spoke and the memory slipped away.

"Perhaps not until now, I suppose," he relented, eyes still nearly glowing as they watched her. "It was only by the will of the Seven that you and Brother Devan crossed paths for the second time, certainly a rarity among wanderers such as yourselves. Your second meeting coincided with his quest to see me and seek clarification regarding your position in the Faith," he reminded her, lifting his nearly non-existent eyebrows indicatively. "You needed a guide to bring you here, and the Seven provided you one."

Azalea knew they could debate until the end of the world what constituted coincidence and divine direction, so let the potential refutation slip below the surface of her thoughts and progressed their conversation.

"And what need did I have to come here?" she questioned, genuinely curious what his reasoning would be.

"It was due time for the Seven to judge you, Lady Peverell," he informed her, nodding his head in response to her raised eyebrows.

"Judge me?" she repeated, expressing her uncertainty. The High Septon nodded again as they resumed their stroll around the sept, joining in a slow dance with the rainbow light.

"When word reached me that you had arrived," he began, "I immediately went to pray. I only emerged yesterday, you see, and I wanted to speak with you immediately, but it would have been inappropriate to insist you attended the sept at such a late hour, so I focused my efforts on patience," he smiled to himself, amused. "And during those seven days in prayer to the Seven, it was revealed to me your purpose.

"Admittedly, my lady, I hadn't quite known what to make of you," he confessed, lips pursing as he thought. "I have spent my life hearing your legend but I could not help but wonder, as a man of the Faith, if I was right to put my faith in you. I've heard such wondrous things about you, some nigh impossible to believe, but all things good, I assure you. Regardless of that, however, I had to question what it meant to the Faith to have you among us. You wield godlike power, you never age, and you never die. Some might call you a goddess yourself," and his expression suddenly shifted into deep seriousness as he continued, "and to have people believe such things would be a threat to the Faith."

Azalea was only made more uncomfortable by his sudden austerity, his words too similar to reality for her to easily brush the feelings they evoked aside.

"I am aware that many smallfolk already pray to you," the High Septon allowed, continuing evenly, "sometimes calling you the Maiden or the Mother, and others even the Stranger, and this disturbed me as a man of the Faith deeply. I feared what the Faith would become if such heretic thoughts and practices were given room to grow. Yet I could not deny that your benevolence was very in the spirit of the Mother Above, your fairness like the Father, your innocence despite all you have seen honouring the Maiden, your creations and hard work like the Smith, your wisdom on par with the Crone, and the Stranger," he finished, not saying any more for the latter. "The only aspect of the Seven I needed to think for was the Warrior, and then I realised how evident it was that it takes great strength to do all that you do, always travelling, always helping, and treating the folk of Westeros all the same. That is no feat for the fainthearted."

"I take it by your flattery that you have reconciled your concerns of me with the Faith?" she queried, head tipping slightly to one side as she frowned contemplatively at the floor. While she wasn't going to feel embittered if the High Septon told her that she was an abomination to the Faith and was not welcome in any sept ever again, it would make things more difficult to have all the power of the Faith set against her. While she didn't doubt her ability to weather that storm, the Faith of the Seven was the most powerful and influential order in Westeros. It would only be a fool who made an enemy of them.

"Indeed I have," he agreed, smiling sincerely at her, his eyes revealing his relief. "You are blessed by the Seven, my lady. It is their will that you be here in this country, among their devout. They revealed nothing especially specific, but I could feel that you were important to the realm. I would go so far as to say that you were necessary."

The High Septon lifted his chin and gazed upon Azalea, his eyes softly sparkling, his lips pressed together in repressed excitement, and his clenched fists trembling faintly. Azalea was relieved to not have an enemy in the Faith, but his words were doing nothing to reassure her.

"You are the Light of the Seven, Lady Peverell," he told her reverently, smile widening until his wrinkles squished together and his eyes almost closed. "You are their chosen."

The light twinkling in through the high arched windows suddenly dimmed, like a cloud was passing over the sun. Azalea wondered if that was meant to be a sign or not, and whether it meant good things for her or otherwise. She'd heard those words before, that she was the chosen one; chosen as a baby by a prophecy, and again later in her life by death. Those words were haunting her, wherever she went. Even in another world she couldn't escape them. Azalea really didn't like that.

The High Septon seemed content with their silence, and the pair wandered aimlessly through the black marble sept. They drifted under the windows, circling the chamber full of rainbow light. Azalea let her eyes wander around until they returned to the stained glass windows above her head, once more admiring the images as art but beginning to feel their religious connotations more closely now that the High Septon's words were circling in her head like a carrion bird. She paused beneath the window of the Crone again, realising they'd done an entire circuit in silence.

"Which aspect of the Seven do you pray to most often, my lady?" His High Holiness interrupted the silence between them, but his voice was such that his question sounded more like a musical note or part of a song, and the calm in the sept was not broken but instead given another layer. It suddenly occurred to her that his voice matched the bright and almost magical interior, as enchanting and unique as the refracted light playfully shimmering in the black marble sept.

Azalea settled on that thought and decided to humour his question. She didn't necessarily pray to any of the Seven Who Are One any more than she did the old gods of the north, but there was certainly one aspect of the Seven that she felt the most affinity with.

"The Stranger," she admitted, gazing up at its likeness on the window next to the Crone. It was the only window that had no light filtering through. There was a stunning stained glass representation of the death aspect but there were shutters on the outside of the arched window, closed so that the Stranger was cast in darkness. Azalea found it curiously sad, but also strangely beautiful. She couldn't quite settle on what she felt more strongly.

"Why the Stranger?" the High Septon asked peaceably, harmlessly curious about her choice. Azalea almost smiled.

"I suppose because the Stranger keeps turning me away."

The leader of the Faith was quiet as he considered her response, and Azalea had nothing more to say to him either. Finally, the High Septon replied.

"Or perhaps you hold the Stranger's favour."

The wandering witch turned to him with doubt painted clearly across her face. She wanted to hear what he had to say, despite her hesitant beliefs, because if just one person could give her some kind of assurance regarding what she was and for what purpose she lived, it would go a long way to helping her harmonise her conflicting feelings over the matter. Even after several hundred years she still struggled.

"The Stranger isn't only the embodiment of death, Lady Peverell," His High Holiness explained patiently. "The Stranger is also the embodiment of the unknown. There are some who feel as though they are outcasts that also pray to the Stranger, feeling a certain level of kinship with this aspect of the Seven."

"The unknown," she repeated flatly, not understanding his point but feeling something ring true in her as he mentioned the outcasts. She certainly felt that way. The High Septon nodded his head.

"The unknown, the mysterious," he listed, becoming more animated as he expounded on his beliefs. "Do you fear death, my lady?" he asked suddenly, light eyes watching her keenly.

"I can't be afraid of something that will never hold sway over me," she replied irreverently, unwilling to discuss this particular subject any longer. The High Septon didn't speak, though, and waited for his answer. Azalea eventually conceded to him and bowed her head. Twisting her fingers together, a frown marring her perfectly smooth brow, she admitted, "I don't, not really." She sighed and lifted her gaze to the high ceiling, as if searching for answers above. "I can hardly remember a time when I feared the unknown. I think the last time I did I was seventeen years old, and you must understand," she added hastily, looking imploringly to the patiently listening man, "that was a very, very long time ago. I did die, then," she disclosed quietly, allowing the memories of so long ago to flow over her like a returning tide. "There was a war and I died to protect the ones who fought beside me, and the innocent we all defended."

"You willing sacrificed yourself to the Stranger."

Azalea held her tongue and refrained from mentioning it hadn't been the Stranger she had intended to meet after she'd faced down Voldemort's wand. She was briefly startled by how quickly and easily the ancient name of her old enemy had come to her. It had been decades, if not a century, since she'd last thought of him. It made her feel a funny sense of irony that she would suddenly recall the man-creature that called himself 'flight of death' as she was discussing how she had willing walked to hers. He had wanted to live forever and she had wanted to die, and fate had decided they would get their own just rewards. Dismissing the thought from her head, she continued.

Stillness overcame Azalea as old and familiar words whispered in her head like smoke. "I greeted death like an old friend," she verbalised. Then Azalea smiled sadly and glanced sightlessly across the room, ancient memories stirring and making her feel introspective.

The wandering witch had revealed enough of herself now that it was easy to confess her feelings to the holy man, in for a penny, in for a pound. There was something about him that was equal parts sad and familiar, but entirely comforting in a way she hadn't expected the leader of the Faith to be. He seemed less greedy and more compassionate than she had anticipated, more like the ideal of what a man in his position should be. It was a relief to know that some people in power resisted becoming corrupt.

"I fear," she pronounced slowly, drawing their conversation respectfully to his earlier question, sucking on her lower lip for a moment before she continued, "the loneliness when the ones I love are embraced by death." They were both quiet as these words settled between them. Then Azalea resumed. "Death itself is nothing to fear. I can tell you from personal experience that it is just the next great adventure, but it's not a path that I've been able to take. I was offered a choice when I sacrificed myself, to go on or go back. But there was still work to be done and a war to be won, so I chose to go back and finish it. And I did. But death has never welcomed me back since. I'm not afraid of death," she spoke strongly, eyes lighting up in sudden understanding now that she'd finally articulated the dark shadow over her soul. "I'm afraid of living forever, and never reuniting with all the ones I love and have lost."

The High Septon smiled. "The most human thought of all," he whispered, his own eyes turning to look upon the image of the Stranger.

The mood felt heavy with too many years of wisdom and fear weighing them down. Azalea almost felt suffocated, and needed to do something to dispel it. With a quick breath in through her nose, she stepped away from the High Septon and raised her hands above her head, sending a spell towards the windows. She watched, her hands still raised, as the images of the Seven slowly came to life. The Maiden yawned, the Father blinked, the Mother gazed around, and the Smith shook his head. The Warrior gripped his sword, and the Crone scrunched up her face, but the Stranger was most still of all, his robes shifting slightly as though he'd lifted his shoulders and then he settled back into stillness. As the Seven came alive Azalea lowered her arms and turned to glance both sheepishly and defiantly at the High Septon. He was struck speechless.

"What have you done?" he whispered hoarsely, his words holding only dumbstruck wonder.

Azalea shrugged. "You've been kind to me," she told him as though it were evident.

"My lady," he murmured, grey eyes shining and sparkling with the light as he looked around the room. He twisted towards each window faster and faster, like he was attempting to see them all at once, his movements becoming so exuberant that Azalea briefly worried he'd finally overbalance and topple over. He didn't, though, and Azalea found she wasn't all that surprised considering the strength she'd seen in him despite his thin figure. "My lady," he repeated, once again facing her. His eyes shined with tears and he reached forward to grasp her hands. "Thank you," he expressed sincerely, shaking them. "The Seven blessed us the day they sent you."

His earnestness and belief suddenly made her feel guilty, because although she'd never agreed with his beliefs she had never refuted them either. She had let him speak what he wanted to speak and believe what he chose to regarding her. It had been the easy way to avoid the enmity of the Faith, but his innocent and sincere joy affected her and she felt she needed to make some things clear before they continued. If she hoped that the animation she'd just bestowed upon the stained glass windows would ease any offence she might cause, then Azalea only admitted it to herself.

"High Septon, I don't really believe in the Seven," Azalea straightforwardly informed him, feeling obliged to speak the blunt truth to balance her previously leading words.

The old man smiled mysteriously and sent her a pointed look. "The Seven believe in you, my lady."

Azalea thought that was the best she was going to get and let the matter be.

She spent more time in Oldtown, balancing her days between the Citadel and the Starry Sept, but she began to feel the pressures of their attentions, and the reverence of the people of the city once the High Septon announced her purpose in his next service and they saw the life she'd given the images of their Seven. It seemed that people flocked from all around to see her and shake her hand, more than ever before. Devan was also a recipient of much attention when the faithful discovered he had been the one to guide her to the Starry Sept. He took it well, if a little too much to his head, and delighted in preaching to the people who came to see him. He'd become a member of the Most Devout one day and would be elected High Septon for twelve years before his death, a zealous but good-hearted leader of the Faith. Right up until his final moments he would hold that it was because of Azalea that he was so fortunate throughout his life, the Light of the Seven blessing all who she touched, a pillar of support for her within the Faith and her vocal advocate. But it seemed the only peace Azalea could find in the following days was on the Isle of Ravens with Hedwig, the white raven entertaining her with avian gossip and how tiresome she found the flightless two-legged creatures that fed her.

The itch to travel was biting her again, though, an insistent tugging that urged Azalea's feet to move. Her hands had begun to feel idle in Oldtown and she only desired to spread her charity out from the city. Azalea slipped away from Oldtown on such short notice that the High Septon could only hastily dedicate a farewell to her in his service instead of a great holiday like he told her he had wanted, and the Citadel expressed their disappointment that she would be leaving them so soon and taking with her all her knowledge and wisdom, not feeling as though all they learned and recorded from her had been enough. Devan chose to stay in Oldtown among her new devotees and, while she felt it would be the best place for him, it grieved her that she would once again be travelling the long road alone. But as she left the city, retracing her footsteps on the roseroad and letting her feet take her where they pleased, flying above her had been her new white raven friend. Hedwig had chosen to join her.

.

"There," Azaleas smiled, wiping a stray tear off the young lady's cheek. "All better and not even a scar, I promise. Although," she grinned, leaning forward as if sharing a secret, "a wise man once told me that we should not scorn our scars, for they may prove useful to us in some obscure way later in life." She chuckled and pulled away, getting to her feet and holding out her hand to help the girl to hers. "How useful they can be I don't truly know, but they can tell some wonderful stories."

The young Lannister princess sniffled but smiled, and wiped her ruddy cheeks with the back of her hand. She'd been very brave as Azalea healed her, but Hedwig needed to take some of the credit, having let the small girl pet her as a distraction while Azalea did her work.

"Princesses aren't supposed to have scars, though," she admonished the older woman, looking up at her with eyes nearly as green as her own.

Azalea smiled and shook her head. "Scars are nothing to be ashamed of, princess. They are proof we have lived, and survived."

"I couldn't agree more," approved the king, stepping into the room and smiling down at his daughter as she ran into his arms. "You'd look fierce with your very own battle scar, my dear. A little lioness, to be true," he smiled handsomely, chuckling down at his daughter as she grumbled and flushed. He looked to Azalea then and nodded his head. "Thank you again, my lady," he stressed. "Without you she would have surely lost her hand."

"Not quite, my king, but it would have given her trouble for the rest of her days," Azalea confessed softly, smiling as she watched his spirited daughter wiggle out of his arms, happy as before now that she was no longer hurting.

"Father, can she stay forever? I should like Lady Azalea as my companion," the little girl declared, tugging on her father's tunic by his Valyrian steel sword Brightroar, then turning eager eyes on her new friend and Hedwig, smitten by the winged creature.

The king chuckled and followed his daughter's gaze to the young woman, not as taken by the bird. "I should like her companionship as well. If she would consent to stay in Casterly Rock," he affirmed, though where his daughter's eyes were innocent and eager, his were pointed and sparkling with desire. Azalea almost sighed. She enjoyed his company, he was well-read and witty, but he had a wife and she refused to cross that line, no matter how accepted it was for a king to have a mistress.

The kings and lords all throughout Westeros had extended invitations for her to sit at their tables and join their courts, and more often than not join them in their beds or in marriage as well if they hadn't a wife already. They were not uncommon proposals but she did not want to show that kind of preference for one king, lord or realm over another. She enjoyed when they played host to her, but her true love was in travel. She explored all of Westeros to her own heart's desire, sometimes with companions, sometimes not. She refused to settle in a keep, though, because it would restrict her from helping the ones that really needed her. There were times when the skills of those in service to kings were not enough and she'd gladly stepped in to help the ones who ailed, but it was the smallfolk that were in most need of her, the ones who could not afford or had no access to the healing arts or any medicine at all. It was the smallfolk that loved her best, the wanderer who gave them her time and skills at no cost, and not only healed bodies but often repaired homes too, and whose presence meant good fortune for the coming season, or so her legend claimed. All she really did was apply heating charms to their homes and spells to keep away carnivorous animals from their livestock, but in the winter seasons it made all the difference to them.

Her magic was initially feared but her years of travel and equal regard for kings and paupers alike ensured she never needed magic or coins to find a roof again, and ever since the High Septon had labelled her as the chosen one of the Faith more people were welcoming to her and less fearful of her power. As soon as anyone saw her hair, her eyes, her unique scar and distinctive white raven companion, they knew who she was and were ever eager to offer her their homes, their beds, and their food. She was still a legend to those that had never met her but when they did, and their eyes blew wide in wonder, Azalea felt whole and useful and warm like she hadn't since she was a girl. These people had become her people, her children who she would ever care for and keep safe, and she loved them as they loved her.

Azalea smiled at the golden-haired little girl but shook her head.

"Other people need my help too," she rebuked gently. "If I stay here forever, I won't be able to help anyone else."

The little princess pouted and growled moodily. It didn't upset Azalea, though, because her children had often pulled the same face when she'd denied them too. It only warmed her heart for the little lioness and she felt sad that she would soon be moving on. The Lannisters held a fond place in her heart, if at first because their coat of arms was so familiar to the former Gryffindor, but in time members of their family had proved themselves worthy of the banner and all the lion represented to her. She felt proud to share it with them. Not always, and some kings brought her great grief and shame, but there had been just as many who had earned esteem in her eyes, and that was enough.

"I want your help," she protested, widening her eyes pleadingly. "What if I need it and you're not here?"

Azalea laughed at her question and knelt down in front of her, resting her hands on the small shoulders.

"That's all a part of growing up, my darling," she explained wisely, her eyes and smile warm. "You'll learn to help yourself."

"We cannot convince you to stay?" the king asked, looking down at the pair fondly. He wouldn't press the issue if she genuinely refused; he respected her too much for that. He recalled being an arrogant boy who thought he could jump from one rock to another, a distance he boasted his ancestor Lann the Clever had made to sneak into the Rock. Whether or not that was true, Lann had been a fully grown man when he claimed the castle and the king had been a small boy when he'd dared try his luck in an effort to impress the eternal lady. Azalea Peverell had saved his young life that day when he'd jumped too far, and he'd held her in the highest esteem since, her person always welcome to a seat at his table and a room in the family wing of his castle.

Azalea smiled at him and rose to her feet.

"No, I should be moving on soon," she explained, brushing the princess's golden locks from her forehead, smoothing her tiny frown.

"You'll stay for the feast tonight, of course," he insisted, reaching down and swooping up his daughter, making her squeal with delight when he tickled her.

Azalea smiled at the pair and nodded her head.

"Of course."

.

Word came of the arrival of a Rhoynar princess and her straggling people in Dorne while Azalea was still a guest in Casterly Rock. She'd only read about the lands across the narrow sea, and the Rhoynish people, and was determined to one day see the other civilisations with her own eyes, but had never quite found herself ready to journey away from Westeros. She had heard most famously of Valyria, though, and its great sorcerers and mighty dragons, and was even more tempted to visit the Freehold for herself, having only been to Dragonstone when its dragonlords were away in Essos. She'd seen enough beauty and felt enough magic on that outpost to spark her curiosity, though. The ruin that the Rhoynar people were reported to be in, however, had startled her, and grieved her, and Azalea knew where she would be headed next. Valyria could wait.

"Dorne?" the king asked, trying to keep his tone as respectful as he could for her decision but unable to keep the disdain out of it. "My lady, Dorne is poor and desolate and full of petty, quarrelsome lords and more kings to count. Are you certain this is where you next wish to venture?"

"I am," she told him without doubt, sipping on her wine and watching the princess feed Hedwig with a piece of meat from her plate, the bird perched self-importantly on the giggling girl's shoulder. "These people have been at sea for years, vagrants fearing an uncertain future and no home to call their own after theirs was taken away. They need my help."

So the Lannister king gave her a ship of her very own and she sailed it around the south of Westeros, keeping her ship and her crew safe from raiders with magic. They arrived at the Sandship, the seat of House Martell, less than a month after their departure from Lannisport. The crew were unable to make port for several days, however, kept from docking by the magnificent blaze of every ship and floating vessel as far as the eye could see. They burned through the day and through the night, and Azalea was tempted to Apparate to shore but held herself at bay in respect for her captain and crew, and to admire the spectacle the likes of which she didn't expect to see again. When they could finally step on land Azalea wasted no time burying herself in the incredible number of people and helping the dehydrated, the seasick, the ones with scurvy, and the very hungry with her mokeskin pouch full of preserved food and other marvels. Usually delicate when first introducing herself to a new people, their suffering and bone deep weariness was such that Azalea refused to waste time easing them into the knowledge of her magical arts. It was perhaps the storm of gratitude that she left in her wake, and their ready acceptance of her powers due to their familiarity with their own famed water witches, that led her to meeting the Rhoynar people's princess and the newly titled prince of House Martell earlier than she'd honestly expected.

Mors Martell was familiar with tales of her and very shrewd, but readily accepted Azalea into his lands so long as she continued to give them aid, also honoured to be the first noble in all of Dorne she had ever visited. The princess herself had a presence about her, and Azalea couldn't find it in herself to be wary of her. Nymeria was bold and protective and sagacious, and after observing Azalea work to help her people for a day, following her around and taking the time to sit with those who had journeyed with her, she gave Azalea her approval and began consulting with her on matters concerning the Rhoynar in Dorne. Their friendship grew quickly, like a summer storm, and it was only held second to the great respect they had for one another. It was Azalea who delivered and was the first to hold Nymeria's first child Meria, and it was Azalea who stood beside the Rhoynish princess as she quelled those who thought her weaker for her sex. It was also Azalea who Nymeria held counsel with when she and Mors settled on using their strength to subdue the rest of Dorne under one rule. This is where they first found themselves in disagreement.

"I do not want to get involved in the quarrels of kings, Nymeria," Azalea told her one dark evening as she rocked the small daughter of her very best friend. "That is not my place. I heal the sick and injured, I don't make them that way."

Nymeria shook her head and poured herself another glass of wine, settling down in front of her friend and levelling her with a serious look.

"So all the injured people that will surely come of this campaign will be left to rot and die because you do not wish to follow us to war?" she argued, eyes dark and challenging. "I had thought you better than that, Azalea."

"War is not my place," she corrected, face growing stern. "I've seen war, fought in war, won a war. Now I only wish to heal. I am tired of the fighting." Memories swarmed in Azalea's head of battles past. While her war as Azalea Potter had been her first and most memorable much for that reason, it had not been her only fight over the years. Dark witches and wizards had risen in the centuries following Voldemort and she'd helped defeat them, but in more recent years, in her new environment, she'd seen grievous brutality and horrible bloodshed as the lords and kings of Westeros fought for territory and pride. They were battles that were not for the good of anyone bar the wealthy, and Azalea had refused time and again to give her favour to one ruler over another. They had been fighting for greed, not for good, and Azalea refused to stand it and had instead turned her care towards the ones who suffered from such conflicts the most. The smallfolk had ever been grateful to her for this.

Nymeria shook her dark head again and sat up proud and straight. "Life is a fight. So long as you live, you fight. Our whole lives are spent at war, fighting hard for one more day on this earth. If you do not see that you have lost your way. I had thought you a warrior beneath your calm. Perhaps you are just smoke and foam."

Azalea wasn't angry, she was disheartened and shamed, because the magnificent woman sitting in front of her spoke a harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless. Had it been anyone else asking her, or trying to convince her, Azalea would have turned them away. This was Nymeria, though, her good friend, the woman she shared a kinship with that she hadn't with anyone since her life as a Potter. Nymeria was a fighter, not in battle but in conviction and command, and more than that she was a leader, a woman alone in the world despite all the people following her, a people whose future safety was rested heavily on her shoulders.

Azalea knew the kind of responsibility she bore because long ago it had once been hers too. She swore she'd never involve herself in war again, would do her utmost to prevent it or bring it to a peaceful as possible conclusion if she had to, but in her long life she had forgotten a truth that Nymeria knew well; life was a fight, and when you had a people relying on you it was your responsibility to do everything in your power to ensure their good health and future prosperity. Nymeria was the leader that Azalea had forgotten she'd once been, isolating herself in her travels and convincing herself she was doing all she could by helping the ones she encountered but not the people as a whole. Azalea had forgotten the duty of being responsible for a large group of people, forgotten what it meant to serve the greater good. Nymeria had done what no one had done for her in centuries; she reminded Azalea of the circumstances and convictions that led her to live so long in the first place.

Azalea met the dark eyes of the Rhoynish princess and grimly nodded.

"Very well," she conceded, watching as Nymeria's eyes lit up with relief. "I will follow you."

Over the many years that came after that decision, Azalea ever dutifully kept stride with Nymeria. She was a counsellor when Nymeria grew frustrated with the rest; she was a mother to Nymeria's children when she was busy leading her war; she was a healer that kept all the people she loved fighting fit and reconciled the conquered people of Dorne when they bent the knee; she was there to comfort her best friend when her husband died and stood beside her as she wed her next; and she stepped into the war room, commanding soldiers for and with the ones she loved, building a secure future together. It was during this time that she had a health scare, having fallen ill without notice, almost collapsing from sudden nausea during a midday meal. Azalea had panicked and wondered if she had become pregnant for the first time in centuries despite her contraceptive charms, having taken a lover while in Dorne. It passed soon enough, though, but in the following days Azalea was disconcerted by the incident. It was also later that word came of the destruction of the once great civilisation of Valyria. There was celebration amongst the Rhoynish in Dorne, and grim satisfaction from Nymeria as she heard of the dragonlords' demise. Azalea herself was torn by the event, devastated by the untold death and selfishly distressed that she would never have opportunity to consult with the famed sorcerers of the Freehold. She kept these opinions mostly to herself but Nymeria was as perceptive as ever when it came to her friend and confronted her on her feelings.

They didn't disagree but Nymeria found little sympathy in her heart at first. She grew more compassion for the dead Valyrians when Azalea expressed her sorrow for all the innocent in the Freehold, and the children who had perished in the fires. They were calling it the Doom of Valyria soon enough, and word of the escalating wars amongst the cities once under Valyrian domain caused the Princess of Dorne to shake her head in contempt. Azalea could only agree and grudgingly turned her attention back to Dorne. But all of Dorne was soon after conquered and the last of the Dornish kings was set to sail to the Wall in his golden fetters. It was not long before deposed king Yronwood's ship was to leave sandy shores that Nymeria cornered Azalea after one of her afternoons with Princess Meria, the girl more like her own daughter than she could imagine and now closer in age to her than her mother. After a lengthy conversation that lasted until the moon had risen and set again, the middle-aged commander and her ever-youthful and wise counsellor exited the dark-haired ruler's chambers, both red-eyed but smiling. And so Azalea bid heartfelt, teary goodbyes to Dorne and the family she had grown to cherish, and set sail with the last Dornish king and a now old Hedwig, more and more inclined these days to spend her travels perched on Azalea's shoulder instead of flying high above her head.

.

Azalea was in awe of Dragonstone long before her ship docked, but not because the bleak island citadel beneath the smoking mountain overly impressed her. For leagues she and the crew had been able to see the dragons flying high in the sky around the stone island and her excitement had bloomed. Her heart was also filled with fondness and sorrow as she remembered Nymeria's words to her, encouraging her to find what she could with the last Valyrians that remained in this world. She held no love for the dragonlords herself but Nymeria loved her friend, and so gave her the blessing of Dorne to go north and learn from the new people. Azalea couldn't remember the last time she'd cried as much as she had when saying goodbye to her long-time friend. She supposed another reason she travelled so frequently and refused to stay in one place for long was because soon enough, and in seemingly no time at all, the ones she'd grown close to would age and die and she'd stay eternal. Hedwig was aging proof of that. Azalea had broken her own rule and stayed in Dorne for longer than anywhere else since her time with the children of the forest, and they were long-lived themselves so the grief was not quite the same. Azalea wondered if she'd ever see Nymeria again and was caught between maintaining the memories she had, not watching her friend wither and die, or returning and holding her hand as she passed on. She wondered which would hurt more.

Such grim thoughts were brushed aside as the small ship docked, where a woman of middle-age with silver-gold hair and lilac eyes was waiting to greet her with an excited smile welcoming the witch to her shores. Bemused, Azalea had stepped off the ship and returned her smile, curious and questioning the greeting by the stunning Valyrian lady.

She introduced herself as Daenys Targaryen and said she'd seen Azalea's arrival in a dream, as well as enough moments in her life to warm her heart to the woman she knew would be visiting her home soon. So it came about that Daenys the Dreamer and Azalea the Undying became good friends. Azalea expected she latched onto the woman so quickly because of the sudden loneliness she felt after having such close friends for so long with the Rhoynar and Dornish people in the south. But it was easy to like the pale-haired lady; she was considerate and generous and as curious about Azalea as Azalea was about her. She welcomed the famous wanderer of Westeros into her home, as did her father, his wives, her brother-husband and their wedded children, and all their household too. After all, they trusted the word of Daenys even more after the Doom she'd foreseen came to pass, and Daenys said they could trust Azalea.

In her time with the exiles of Valyria Azalea learned of the old city and grew even more envious in her heart that she'd never gotten the chance to see it for herself. While their laws enabling slavery appalled and upset her, as did their incestuous practices though she was too polite to say so and still delivered the two sons of Aegon and Elaena with nurturing delight, the stories that Aenar and Daenys and Gaemon told her left her mouth agape in wonder. The ancient stronghold sounded like something out of a fantasy, even more so than Hogwarts had been to her. She painted pictures in her head of the burning mountains of the Fourteen Flames coursing through the city, the shining walls and grand palaces that flaunted the great civilisation's wealth, and mighty dragons flying overhead night and day. But Daenys was ever insightful and offered to share her memories with her friend, so Azalea delicately entered the mind of the Valyrian and saw for herself the wonder of the Freehold. The city she'd imagined in her head held no candle to the vision that was inside Daenys's, and for the first time Daenys was able to share the vision that haunted her of her beloved city consumed by fire. It was even more horrifying than Azalea had imagined, but when Hedwig finally died, old and loved, and her grief became pronounced, the empathy she had shown to Daenys was returned as they bid the loyal bird farewell. Together they spent many days and nights grieving lost loved ones and homes, and sharing tales and knowledge of magic and dragons.

The dragons had been most surprising of all to Azalea and helped her manage her heartache after the second Hedwig's passing. They were not quite the same as the dragons from her old world and yet very much comparable. It was, she supposed, the variance between humans and primates; while they all obviously shared a common heritage there were nevertheless differences that set them all apart, the dragons of this world feeling grander and superior on all scales than her world's counterparts. More startling, however, had been when the dragons had communicated to each other and she'd comprehended their tongue. They growled and they roared in primal ways that made no obvious sense to her without the skills the children taught her, but they also hissed in a manner that had her mind flashing back to large yellow eyes under her old school. She'd been able to speak with snakes again since she'd become the Master of Death, a talent she'd wondered over but ultimately dismissed as another quirk of her new power, but never in all her many years would she have expected to speak with dragons naturally.

She spent most of her time with the five impressive creatures from then on, conversing with them and delighting in their company. On one occasion in this time she was unfortunate enough to be caught in their fiery breath when they'd quarrelled amongst each other while she had been standing nearby. Azalea woke up naked in the godswood of Winterfell – her safe place in this world like Aragog's old nest had been in her other – with all her clothes incinerated save for the magically fire-resistant mokeskin pouch hanging around her neck. She hastily dressed in dragon hide from Earth and Apparated back to Dragonstone to calm the distraught Daenys. That was the first time that the woman had seen with her own eyes the truth of Azalea's immortality. She was intimidated by her power for a short time but her relief that her friend was not dead overwhelmed her caution and soon they were back to how they had been before, though with perhaps more awe on Daenys's part than in the past. Azalea had taken the precaution this time to cast a Flame-Freezing Charm on herself using the Elder Wand, just to be sure it would hold against dragonflame. She had faith in her magic and how strong it had become but the Elder Wand remained superior, and Azalea didn't want to risk frightening her friend again. She was right to take precautions. It was not the last time she was caught by fiery breath while the dragons' had been excited.

The dragonlords were fascinated by her unfamiliar, more powerful magic, as well as her ability to communicate with and control the dragons in ways they could not. Azalea more than once tried to correct them and say she wasn't controlling the fearsome creatures, she was simply asking them like equals and the dragons' captivation for her and her conversations with them made them very agreeable. But Aenar and Gaemon were stalwart in their opinions, and Aegon was too in awe to disagree with his father and grandfather, and they often asked her to journey with them across the narrow sea to join them in the wars fought for the Disputed Lands that once belonged to their kinsmen. It seemed the Targaryen men were as entranced by her as their dragons, and a light Confundus Charm was used on more than one occasion to politely decline their insistent amorous attentions and proposals of marriage and war. Only slightly tempted by the handsome dragonlords, Azalea wanted a husband she didn't have to emotionally share if she did choose to marry again and would settle for nothing less, even if marrying again was far from her mind. Daenys and Elaena only shook their heads and found amusement in their efforts and Azalea's resulting irritation, and would laugh and insist they escape for a while and explore the island and the secret caves beneath the rock, and go flying high above the clouds.

Azalea hadn't needed any aid to fly in centuries, but there was something wholly magnificent about flying in the air on the back of a dragon. Balerion was her favourite dragon for all his ill temper, and she had a rather good feeling she was his favourite human too. But the Targaryens were shocked that the youngest dragon would let her ride him when Elaena was his rider, however difficult he was with her and even more so after Azalea first rode him, which only set them to wonder again. Balerion wasn't the largest dragon she'd ever seen, or the largest of the five, but dragons in this world kept growing as long as they lived, so she fancied he'd be as large as a mountain in the time it took her to walk Westeros and return to the dragonlords' home. His leathery black wings cast shadows on the earth when they forsook the ground, and the awareness that beneath her soared the most powerful creature in this world captivated Azalea as much as she had captivated the dragons. So they flew and they soared, and they dipped and dived and spiralled wildly through the air in more and more daring ways, and she directed his black fire and embraced its heat, and together they were glorious, the fiery-haired woman astride the black beast. They were some of the best times of her life.

She didn't spend as long on Dragonstone as she had in Dorne, however, despite the Targaryens' insistences, and Aegon and Elaena's small boys pleading for her to stay. Part of it was the fear of never wanting to leave like she hadn't wanted to leave Dorne – already she'd grown attached to the Valyrians and their dragons, and children were always her weakness – but another part of her knew she'd been neglecting the rest of her country for too long, decades having been spent in Dorne and Dragonstone alone. So Azalea bid farewell to the family that were reluctant to see her go and flew on the back of Balerion one last time, from Dragonstone over Blackwater Bay to the stormlands of House Durrandon, and began her walk of Westeros with fresh conviction, lighter in her step and full of greater purpose than she had been before.

.

Decades passed but Azalea was always careful in her travels, avoiding unnecessary conflict and staying safe as she could, but some things can't be accounted for, and stray arrows are one of them. She'd felt the arrow pierce her throat and had a moment of terrified, choking panic as blood rushed forth and suffocated her, the pain exploding into her awareness. It wasn't as quick as she'd have liked but it was still too quick for her to regain rationality and use magic to help herself. So the darkness welcomed her for an incalculable time before it gently settled her back to life in the place she'd first arrived.

There was a gasp when she came to awareness again but it hadn't been her own. Opening her eyes and scrutinising what was different this time, she noticed very quickly that she wasn't alone. A small, dark-haired boy was half-lurched to his feet not far from her, seemingly caught between retreating from her mystery and coming closer to investigate and see if she was well. He was dressed in fine furs, and she supposed he'd come to pray in the godswood beside the heart tree.

"Hello," she said, sitting up slowly, hoping not to startle him too much more.

He blinked his wide eyes and responded.

"Hello."

Azalea felt her lips twitch in amusement and stood to her feet.

His curiosity seemed to overrule his caution even quicker than she'd expected when he addressed her again. "I'm Torrhen," he introduced, watching her closely and standing to his feet too. "Who're you?"

Azalea smiled. "Nice to meet you, Torrhen. I'm Azalea."

The boys eyes blew wide and he jumped closer to her, eyes roving her figure in glee.

"Azalea Peverell?" he gushed, grin stretching his face in childish excitement. "The Gods' Gift?"

Azalea laughed. "Is that what they're calling me in the north?" she teased, waving her hand and vanishing the blood on her tunic. Torrhen saw her do this and seemed to hold his breath, then he cried out in excitement and jumped around her, looking up at her with large grey eyes that reminded her of her godfather. She felt suddenly sentimental and recalled that it was also thoughts of him that brought her to this world, to this exact spot so many years ago. She faintly wondered if she only came here because she was the Master of Death, or if he'd come here too. Such a thought would only hurt her, though, so she quickly shut it down and focused back on the babbling boy as he danced around her.

"Are you really? You must be! I've heard all your stories! Is it true you tamed a snowbear? Have you really seen a giant? Did you ride a dragon like I've heard? Because Bran said you have, but I don't believe everything he says because he likes to trick me," he gushed, bouncing forward on the balls of his feet. "Do you want to come up to the castle with me? Bran will never believe I've really met you if you don't. Are you going to stay in Winterfell this time? Because you've stayed in Dorne and in Dragonstone, but you were here first and you haven't stayed as long with us. Will you stay? Please?"

It took a moment for Azalea to comprehend just how many words he'd said in one breath and then make the effort to understand them. Then she laughed, loud and free, because this small boy had charmed her like she hadn't been charmed in years. His eagerness was so like the little boys' of her own womb from so long ago that she could only nod her head and hold out her hand for him to take.

"Of course, Torrhen," she chuckled, the pair grinning at each other when he took her hand and tugged her after him. "Is Bran your brother?" she asked conversationally, before he could inundate her with an endless string of questions.

Torrhen nodded his head.

"He's my half-brother," he told her, trying to skip ahead and get them to their destination faster. "He's a bastard, though, but I don't mind."

Azalea smiled again at the child and admired his conviction. "That's good, you shouldn't."

Small, excitable Torrhen turned out to be Torrhen Stark soon enough, the next King in the North. He boasted as soon as they entered Winterfell, for all to hear, that he'd been praying in the godswood for a way to get back at his brother for putting horse muck in his boots only for the gods to hear him and send their gift back to Winterfell. The smallfolk gathered to catch a glimpse of their future king with the legendary lady and Azalea wondered if it really had been that long since she'd been so far north. A boy not much older than Torrhen had quickly joined them, the mischievous Brandon Snow, and was soon as equally absorbed in her stories as his trueborn brother.

Azalea kept her promise to Torrhen Stark and was a guest in Winterfell for many years. She'd forgotten how magnificent the godswood was, how the ancient magic saturated the land and trees, and slowed down enough to convene with the children of the forest through the weirwoods. She'd walked away from those conversations feeling lighter, because many of the children she'd known had still been alive and pleased to hear from her. It grounded her in a way the short lives of the humans could not, knowing that she could have companions in the children that lasted longer than the short sixty years that averaged the lives of men. She did travel away from Winterfell during her stay but she never left the north, and often Torrhen and Brandon joined her on her journeys throughout the northern kingdom, earning favour from many of their lords simply for having hers. In those years the boys grew and she stayed the same, but they brought out a playfulness and mischievousness in her that had been dormant for years, forgotten under layers of age and heavy responsibility. She'd stayed in Dorne because Nymeria was her friend and had fought a war for her; she'd stayed in Dragonstone because Daenys had been her friend and together shared her vision of the Doom and all her grief; she stayed in Winterfell because the boys were her friends, and they made her feel properly young again for the first time in longer than she could remember.

The young Stark and Snow were as curious about her travels and fascinated by her magic as anyone had ever been. She was a wanderer but over the years she'd become a storyteller as well, someone who could quiet an entire castle when it was her turn to speak. The boys flooded her with questions and expressed their wonder, but she drew short when they asked her of the lands beyond the narrow sea. She'd travelled all of Westeros many times over, and the Lands of Always Winter too, but she'd never yet journeyed across the water despite the temptation always in the back of her mind. They begged to go with her when she finally said she'd be leaving them, but their father had been resolute and denied them the adventure. No persuasion on Azalea's part could convince him either, no matter how she promised they'd always be kept safe. She hadn't had travelling companions in many years, the idea of her boys joining her in the part of the world she had yet to explore blossoming hard and fast, and she wanted nothing more. But the King in the North still refused, saying a Stark's place was always in Winterfell, and that had been that.

"We could run away with you," Brandon muttered into her shoulder as she hugged him tight in goodbye. He'd become the sneaky one, much more roguish than his brother, but equally as passionate as Torrhen. Despite being the king's son he had always had a harder life than his little brother, but Azalea's equal regard for him had earned her his admiration and respect. He'd also developed a very strong affection for her over the years and he was a short answer away from disobeying his father and following her anywhere.

"Oh, Bran," she whispered, squeezing him tightly before letting go and stepping back. "We both know you can't do that." He opened his mouth quickly to reply, but not a sound escaped. He pressed his lips together, let his eyes capture her face, before he bowed his head and looked away.

Azalea turned to Torrhen next, the little boy who had become a little brother, and was moved by the tears that left a film on his eyes.

"Come here," she whispered and held open her arms. The boy barely a man rushed forward like he was little again, and wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he dared. She was his hero and he didn't want to say goodbye.

"Say you'll come back," he demanded tightly, his throat closing up.

"Of course I'll come back," she chided, running her fingers through his hair. Torrhen pulled back suddenly and his grey eyes were hard and grim.

"Say you'll come back in my lifetime," he corrected, looking at her levelly, having grown to reach her height and only set to grow taller like his big brother Bran.

Her face fell into soft lines and she sighed fondly, raising her palm to his barely stubbled cheek. He was growing up.

"I'll come back in your lifetime," she promised, solemnly nodding her head.

Grey eyes studied green for any hint of deception, but even though he found none he still hurt as if he'd never see her again. He hugged her again, and if she could feel dampness on her shoulder she would never tell anyone for as long as she lived, which would be a very long time indeed.

"I'll miss you," he whispered, before finally pulling away. Those grey eyes that had reminded her of a godfather she'd nearly forgotten, and a life long ago lived, were once more pulling and plucking her heartstrings like no one since her youngest son had. Struck by sudden inspiration, however much she second-guessed her emotional investment, Azalea opened the small yet bottomless mokeskin pouch around her neck and held out her hand. The boys watched her curiously, then the small mirror as it flew out of the bag and into her palm. Never had they seen such a clear, exact reflection before, and they were newly awed by their long-time friend and all her surprises, wondering if they would ever cease.

"Here," she urged, pressing it into his hands. "This is a two-way mirror," she explained, glancing at Brandon and back at an already enraptured Torrhen. "Whenever you want to speak to me say my name into the mirror and, if I hear it, I'll answer my mirror and we'll talk."

For all the miracles they'd seen her accomplish, the boys still looked at her and the mirror in doubt. She smirked cheekily and nodded.

"Try it."

They glanced at each other and, in a way only close brothers can, spoke her name at the same time.

"Azalea Peverell."

Grinning now, knowing she was about to amaze them, Azalea pulled out her second mirror and looked down into the shocked faces that weren't her own.

"Hello, boys," she teased, winking at the pair.

So their parting was made easier with the gift she'd given them and the promise that she'd only be a moment's call away. She loved Westeros, with all her heart, but Torrhen and Brandon had sparked the desire in her to see what lay on the other side of the narrow sea. With their blessing, if as well their envy, she left Winterfell and Apparated around Westeros, advising the royal families, Citadel and High Septon that she would be leaving for a time, before she left in the direction leading east, ready to take a ship and see the rest of the world.

.

Azalea had not long been in Essos when she was summoned back to Westeros. She'd kept in contact with Torrhen in that time and advised him, acting as a rock for him when things looked unsteady. It had been on a day while she was enjoying the sun in Pentos, two years after leaving Winterfell and Westeros, that Torrhen had called her on the mirror, more subdued than she'd ever imagined him capable. His father was dead and he was now king, far earlier than he'd ever expected or desired. She'd left Pentos and the pressures of involving herself in the terrible wars plaguing the continent within the hour, and Apparated straight into Winterfell, startling the servants in the hall. They'd quickly directed her to their new king and she'd found the young man of seven-and-ten looking as small as he had when they'd first met, curled over his knees and staring into the fire.

"Hello, Torrhen," she'd said, and it had been the only thing said for a while.

She hadn't departed for Essos again until a year later, lending wisdom and counsel to a ruler of one people in a way she hadn't since she was Nymeria's advisor, and visiting with some noble houses to assure herself they were well. But for all that she loved him, and that he was a good man, Torrhen began to lean more heavily on her and her opinions, more than a king should on one person. So in that year Azalea taught him how to be independent and self-assured, while also using his lords and other advisers for the betterment of the north above all selfish desires. This was more than necessary considering the bold attacks on northern borders by the ironborn king in the south, the one they called Black Harren with his fearsome reputation of cruelty and empire built on blood. It was one more thing for Torrhen to concern himself over, which was not in his favour. He and the north would always keep watch on the ironborn, of course, but it took extra effort to settle his mind on other matters of kingship, and of enduring winter.

One of these concerns of kingship was his marriage. He was king, and a king without an heir needed a wife, and Torrhen was reluctant to find one. He hadn't found girls distasteful in many years but he did lament that he'd have to marry one so soon. Brandon took this opportunity to tease his brother in a way neither had felt the desire to do since their father's passing. Torrhen griped and he groaned but he took the jibing in good humour and returned it as good as he got, because there was a woman already whom his brother wanted to marry, and that was endless fodder for retaliatory teasing.

In the two years she'd been gone, Brandon had become more a man at nine-and-ten than he had been before she'd gone across the sea. The last of his childhood had fled his face and he stood taller than Azalea's above average height by half a head. He was his brother's closest confidant and the leader of his guardsmen. Most of all, though, he was still in love with Azalea and showed no signs of his feelings easing.

He'd been infatuated but shy when she'd lived with them before, but since coming back Brandon had a confidence he'd acquired in the two years she'd been gone and was using it to devastating effect of Azalea. While she refrained from expressing much outwardly, in her own private thoughts she was waging an internal battle. She'd taken lovers in her time but she'd rarely ever taken one for whom she had real feeling. That way held only heartbreak, she knew, and had proved herself right more than once. But he was persistent, and he was good, and he made her feel young and alive in ways an eternal shouldn't. It was easy to forget she'd watched the boy grow into a man when he rested his hands daringly on her waist, or when he pressed up against her from behind and whispered in her ear, or when he took her hand and kissed it, holding her eyes captive. And she chose to overlook all her doubts when he pressed her against a wall where anyone might see, and when he kissed her neck and dug his fingers into her hips, and when he made her moan and arch and cry in pleasure beneath his body, and above it, and in any other way they could imagine. Her year end in Winterfell approached quickly after she realised how deeply involved she was with the king's brother, though. It both broke and hardened her heart.

She and Brandon had been up late into the night, filling her chambers with grunts and groans and pleas and moans, and it was as they were lying together that he struck the nail in the coffin and frightened her away.

"Marry me," he murmured, playing with her bright hair. Azalea lifted her cheek from his chest and opened her mouth with nothing to say. His steel blue eyes found hers in the dark and his face was as grave as every Stark's had ever been. His fingers stilled in her hair and her hand on his chest clenched into a fist. She wanted to say yes and stay with him, and love him and grow old with him, but she couldn't and she wouldn't do that to him. She could stay with him for the next fifty years, or perhaps even less if he wouldn't live that long, but that was the sad truth about her life; it would go on long after his would end. And that would hurt them both.

Azalea gently shook her head, face grieved and heart clenching. "No, Bran," she whispered, her reluctance to deny him forcing her tone so quiet he only heard her because the night was dark and silent and they were lying so close.

His jaw tightened and he glanced away. His fingers pulled her hair as if he was clenching his hand in a fist of his own, and he shook his head sharply on the pillow and looked to her again.

"Is it because I'm a bastard?" he challenged, eyes angry and hurting.

"Bran, no," she admonished, straightening slightly where she lied. She frowned in unhappiness but knew why he'd said such a thing.

He sighed, and confirmed her suspicion. "I'm sorry," he muttered, looking away from her towards the window and the bright moon beyond. "I just want to hurt you."

She nodded in understanding and bit her lip. "Because I hurt you."

His eyes remained on the moon but Azalea saw his tear and wished with all her heart she hadn't.

"Yes."

Torrhen married the daughter of one of his vassals shortly before Azalea left. The ceremony in the godswood itself hadn't been large but the feasting and celebration in Winterfell's halls had been. He seemed happy, despite not knowing her for very long, and Azalea knew that he'd be a good husband to his new wife. She'd distanced herself from Brandon since the night she refused him, and felt every moment his weighty gaze was on her through the ceremony before the heart tree and that night when she danced with every man who asked. Easier than she thought anyone able he snuck up on her and spirited her away from the crowds, cornering her in an empty corridor and looking at her with heartbroken, resigned eyes.

"You're leaving."

And she was. As soon as Torrhen was settled into his new marital responsibilities and balancing them with his duties as king, Azalea informed him she'd be leaving Westerosi shores again. He'd asked her to stay but she'd declined, and he'd pacified himself knowing she was only a mirror away. She spent her last night with Brandon and had felt a tear fall from her eye as she finished, and he'd held her tighter than he had before, like in his arms was the strength to make her stay. There wasn't, though, and in the morning she bid farewell to Torrhen and his wife, and Brandon accompanied her to the outskirts of winter town where he kissed her one last time with all the love in his heart. She left Winterfell with watery eyes, on her way to White Harbor and Braavos beyond.

.

Despite her intentions, however, Azalea did not make it to Braavos as soon as she'd intended. In the port of White Harbor traders and sailors from across the realm and over the sea all converged and exchanged goods and services and gossip. It was here that Azalea heard of current events she'd been ignorant of while across the narrow sea, snarled in the Century of Blood, and entangled in her love affair with Brandon since she returned. Azalea had always enjoyed hearing about the lives of the nobility that she was fond of and had discovered through this way that Arlyssa Durrandon, the elder sister of the Storm King Argilac who was across the sea fighting in the Disputed Lands, had recently been taken by one of the sons of Harren the Black.

Years before, when Arlan Durrandon had been king, Azalea had visited his castle following her stay in Dragonstone. The castle itself had magic in its stones, just like all the ancient keeps in the country, but when she had walked through its immense outer curtain wall she had felt a tingling, slightly resistant sensation, like there were defensive wards protecting the seat of the Storm King. The Storm King Arlan had with him two children, his heir Argilac, still in his mother's belly at the time, and his firstborn, his daughter Arlyssa. It hadn't been Azalea's intention to visit more nobles so soon after leaving the Valyrians in case they then expected her to stay years with them as well, but she had heard that the little princess had been deathly ill and hastened to Storm's End to heal her. The little girl had seemed tiny in her large bed, skin ashen and damp, brow pinched with pain, dark hair limp and lifeless, and her lips white, verging on blue. But for all her infirmary, Arlyssa Durrandon had been so full of spirit that it had been bursting out of her eyes, at extreme odds with the rest of her. She had questioned Azalea, challenged her, and swore up and down Shipbreaker Bay that she was a stag of House Durrandon and she would not die that day, or any day soon.

It had been such a bold declaration, in such a loud voice for one so small and unwell, that Azalea could not find it in herself to doubt the girl. Azalea had healed her and, despite her original wishes, had spent the next several years as tutor and companion to the princess, and the crown prince as he was born and grew. Arlyssa had been such a strong character and, like her Stark boys had, reminded Azalea of family of long ago and a fierce redheaded friend who had never let the world cow her. When the time had come about for Azalea to be on her way Arlyssa had pitched such a fit that the whole castle had been careful with her for days. Arlyssa felt as though she was being left behind, and the strong-willed girl with too much spirit in too small a body had gone so far as to lock Azalea in her room with her and toss the key out the castle's window. She had eventually relented and accepted that Azalea was leaving but her fury only softened when Azalea promised to visit her. So over the years, on Arlyssa's name day and whenever the fancy struck her, Azalea had Apparated to Storm's End and visited the growing girl and watched her mature into an inspirational woman.

Arlyssa, despite being the king's only daughter, had never married one of his vassal's in his lifetime, and instead wed one of her brother's knights when she was well past the average age and Argilac was king. Argilac, whom Azalea had also watched grow into a fierce, if hard-headed young man, had given his sister his blessing, despite her marriage not advancing his position or power any. Arlyssa had married for love, taken to heart the many stories Azalea had told her and inspired by Azalea's independence. She had no children, though, and her husband had gone to war in Essos with her brother, leaving her the regent of the stormlands and also alone. Arlyssa had been travelling to visit her mother's family when her company had been set upon by one of the sons of the King of the Isles and the Rivers, and she had been his captive for more than a month before her bannermen had succeeded in their rescue. Black Harren's son had gotten away but had apparently had time to injure his prisoner in punishment for her loyal men recovering her.

Azalea could get no more details from the gossipmongers than that, but it had been enough. She Apparated to Storm's End and stormed into the castle, meeting the High Steward along the way. He directed her towards Arlyssa's chambers, as if Azalea would ever forget, and gave her a quiet warning by the door.

"She is not healed, my lady," he whispered, glancing at the door as if Arlyssa would suddenly whip it open and demand loudly why he was not speaking about her to her face. "Lady Arlyssa has not been out of her chambers since her return and," he hesitated, not meeting her eyes as he continued, "you will see why in a moment."

As if the idea of Arlyssa being afraid to leave her rooms wasn't shocking enough, the High Steward's words only frightened her more. Azalea dismissed him and knocked on the door, but no reply came from within. She knocked again and called through the wood, identifying herself and beseeching Arlyssa to open the door. There was no word from inside but Azalea heard shuffling. Deciding enough, Azalea warned that she was coming inside and opened the door. As her eyes fell on the fierce girl she'd watched grow into a woman, Azalea's horror was beyond comprehension. She had seen many ugly things in her countless years but, as she looked on the older woman with no eyelids, no lips and no ears, all she could see was the spirited little girl with the dark curls and bright blue eyes, teasing and laughing and demanding that Azalea promise to stay with her always.

"Oh, my darling girl," she muttered hoarsely, her first steps shaky before she rushed forward towards the greying lady. "Arlyssa," she whispered, overwhelmed by the sight before her. Azalea wanted to break down and bawl but suddenly felt she hadn't the right. Ringing in her ears was the little girl's insistences that she stay, that she wasn't afraid of the world but wished Azalea would remain with her if ever _she_ was the one to become afraid, so that Arlyssa could protect her. And in return Azalea could hear her own untroubled, teasing voice in her head promising that spirited little girl that she would be able to protect herself, and that she had no doubt Arlyssa would always be able to protect herself too, but if she ever was unable that Azalea would be sure to do it for her. Azalea had lied. It didn't matter that she had been unable to know that at the time because that little girl had trusted her and when she'd needed her most Azalea had been too busy enjoying Brandon's bed in the north. She felt sick to her bones.

The hunched, shamed thing that was wrapped in the furs on her bed could only be Arlyssa, despite how out of character she seemed. Her hair was as limp and greasy as it had been all those years ago when she was on death's door, and her skin was as ashen as it had been then too. Her flesh clung to her bones and appeared to have been sucked into the hollows of her cheeks, and her collarbones were obscenely pronounced. But those were almost kind descriptions, because her mutilation made her look like a corpse. Her hair was pulled forward over the holes where her ears had been but it was stringy enough that Azalea could see through it. Her teeth and gums were bared in a monstrous grin, and her eyeballs were unprotected and ceaselessly glaring, the wide orbs visible in their full round shape unable to be put to rest – Azalea could see a damp cloth on the side of the bed she imagined Arlyssa spent most of her day using.

Azalea stepped forward and slowly lowered herself onto the bed beside her. With deliberate movements, in case she startled her, Azalea reached her hands towards the ones clutching the fur blanket to Arlyssa's chest.

She hardly knew what to say. Azalea wanted to apologise for not being there when Arlyssa needed her but that sentence would have started with a personal pronoun, started the sentence about her – Azalea's sorrow, Azalea's guilt – and that felt wrong. So she said the one thing she had known for sure about Arlyssa Durrandon and that she knew held true now no matter how weak the woman felt.

"You are so strong," Azalea whispered, and her words broke her friend.

Arlyssa cried and clung to Azalea like she never had when she was a child. She had always been so strong, so bold, so unbowed by anything, but this had broken her. Azalea began to feel her fury stirring, now that she had settled the shock and horror she felt at the sight of her friend and the realisation over what had been done. She held her, but when Arlyssa suddenly tried to talk she was unable, and Azalea understood why she had heard no words from within the room when she'd knocked on the door.

They had also ripped out her tongue.

Azalea's bitter tears overflowed with anger. The immortal who tried so hard to be fair and honourable felt the sudden burning desire for the swiftest, harshest vengeance she could administer, with all the weight and fury of her godlike power. She wanted to burn the man who had done this to Arlyssa, burn him and watch him writhe. In that moment in time Azalea knew that she would have been perfectly capable of using the Killing Curse, something she had never allowed herself to do before. The Cruciatus Curse would have come easily to her as well, and she would have revelled in that bastard's screams. But she couldn't leave and hunt him down now, not while Arlyssa clung to her and let herself fall apart. Arlyssa needed her, so Azalea let her fury stew and turned to the woman who looked so small in her arms, when Azalea had no memory of her being anything but larger than life.

"I can make this better, I can heal you. I promise," she whispered into Arlyssa's dark hair furiously, reaching up and stroking it out of her face and lifting her gently by the chin. Arlyssa refused to look in her eyes but Azalea insisted until the familiar blue irises connected with her green. Arlyssa opened her mouth as if she wanted to speak, but a faint choking sound came from her throat instead and she snapped her mouth shut and looked away again.

Azalea breathed deeply and tried not to let her fury show too strongly on her face. With quick hands, she reached down and jerked her small pouch forward off her chest, roughly feeling through it before removing her hand in frustration and summoning the potion to her palm. Azalea was so glad, more than she ever had been before, that she'd learned the arts of potion making and healing before she'd walked through the Veil.

"Drink this," she directed, lifting the vial up to Arlyssa's grotesquely visible gums and teeth, gently resting her hand on the back of her head and tilting the vial herself, careful of it spilling when Arlyssa had no lips to use as purchase. Arlyssa wasn't infirm, for all that she had suffered, but Azalea felt the need to hover and coddle and care for the woman like she was a small child again. Her grief and guilt were great, and she would do all she could to mend the body, heart and trust that had been broken. She doubted she would ever forgive herself, though.

Stroking her hair and gently cleaning it with magic, though there was only so much she could do and it remained flat and lacking lustre, Azalea gave Arlyssa another potion, telling her it would send her to sleep and that when she woke up in the morning her body would be healed. That evening, as Arlyssa dreamlessly slept and relieved the black circles under her wide-open eyes for what Azalea suspected was the first time since before her ordeal, Azalea retrieved the Elder Wand from her mokeskin pouch and set to work.

The potions she had given her were for healing broken skin and a peaceful slumber but, in truth, even in the centuries she'd spent in her old world, and time she'd dedicated to the study herself, none had been able to create a potion that would regrow missing limbs or other appendages. Skin could heal and scars could fade, and bones could be regrown, but full limbs and masses of flesh once taken could not be returned, no matter how much effort people dedicated to the pursuit. The muggles had come closest, and it had become socially acceptable for wizarding folk to seek prosthetics and plastic surgery in the muggle world, but nothing was ever quite the same. But Azalea had the Elder Wand and that gave her a distinct advantage. Her power had grown and focused over the years, and she rarely felt the need to resort to the Elder Wand anymore, but she was taking no chances with Arlyssa. So, as Arlyssa slept and the potions did their work, Azalea gently cut into her skin while the healing potion was still in her system and encouraged the skin and muscle and cartilage to regrow, and not simply regrow over, with the ancient wand. And, when Arlyssa did finally wake the next morning, sleeping almost till midday, she cried again, but this time in relief.

It took time for Arlyssa to speak about what had been done to her, but eventually she did.

"He did it in the way the Shrike did it to Lelia Lannister," she whispered, her chest jerking up and down as she tried to control her breathing. The pair had taken to strolling along the outer curtain of the castle, enjoying the sea breeze and smell of the sea air. "He took me as his sea wife, and he was not kind," she understated.

Azalea was very well aware what it meant to be an Iron Islander's sea wife. Of all the people below the Wall in Westeros she liked the ironborn the least. There were redeemable people on the Iron Islands, many who did not deserve their reputation, but there were still many more who did, and she found it difficult to stand them at the best of times. She only found greater disdain for them now after Arlyssa's suffering at their hands.

Arlyssa was getting better, though, her strength of mind and spirit returning to her with Azalea by her side, and her own stubbornness not allowing her to remain defeated by what had occurred. She did not rest easy without a potion, nor did she feel the same enjoyment from life as she did before, but Arlyssa was eating, she was wandering outside her rooms, and she'd begun to rule the stormlands again instead of leaving it to her brother's council. Azalea was glad to see this but was confused by Arlyssa's lack of reprisal against the one responsible. Arlyssa explained it easily, if resignedly.

"We have not the men for an open war with King Harren," she said one morning, gazing out across the water, far across the narrow sea towards where her loved ones fought for glory. "Argilac is fighting in Essos. He would need to return if war broke out on his home front."

That was another thing Azalea had grudgingly understood. Arlyssa had sent no word to her husband or brother regarding what had happened. She didn't want them to know. It was part shame, and part unwillingness to take them away from their war. It broke Azalea's heart to hear but she was unsurprised by her friend's stubbornness. Azalea was not so easily settled, however, especially when she would hear Arlyssa crying some nights in her room.

"I will find him," Azalea vowed to her one evening as she held Arlyssa tight, rocking the woman as she hiccupped after waking from another nightmare about her servitude. "I will find the one who did this to you and I will bring him here. No one but us need know. I promise."

So Azalea had set out on her hunt for one of Black Harren's sons, spurred on by rumour and determination. She found him within weeks, in an alehouse with a whore on his lap and his father's men crowded around him. They were full of revel, drunk on cheap spirits and wrecking chairs and tables for the fun of it. Most other occupants of the riverlands tavern had slipped away throughout the night, not desiring to be there in case the violent men decided to aggravate relations between them. Azalea had waited patiently in a corner most of the night, undisturbed under a charm that made people aware of her but unnoticed all the same, a muggle repelling charm that worked on most of the people in Westeros and fortunately on her target.

He had spent his evening drinking, shouting, and pawing at the paid women on his arms, and every time he had seemed to decide it was time to retreat to his room with them she magically refilled his tankard and watched him begin drinking again. Soon most of the men had gone to their beds, some with company and some alone, and others passed out on the tables or floors of the tavern. When enough eyes were clouded with drink and the others closed for the night, Azalea rose from her seat, waved her hand and cast the Imperius Curse, and the dead man that didn't know it yet followed her like a lamb, being kind enough to leave his entire purse with the women who had tolerated his filthy hands for the evening, after Azalea's instruction.

Once outside she had kept him under her spell, roughly grasped hold of his arm and Apparated them directly to the dungeons of Storm's End, unmoved when he was sick on his boots from the travel. There she threw him inside, bound him in magic to never step forth from his cell, and shut the metal bars with a vicious clang. She set to work ensuring that no one would notice his occupation of the cell, nor hear his voice if he were to call out to them from behind the bars. Then she silently cast Stupefy and watched him collapse to the filthy stone floor, and retreated to her room upstairs to sleep for the few hours that remained before dawn.

Azalea had taken a surprised but quickly grim Arlyssa down to his cell the next morning, and waking him from his enchanted slumber and watching him panic as he noticed his predicament was sweet indeed. But as his eyes fell on the resplendent, straight-backed and proud princess of House Durrandon, unmarred by his hand any longer, Azalea felt true retribution by the way his filthy black eyes rolled with white and he began screaming in helpless fury and fear at the pair of them.

Though Azalea had wanted to butcher him without restraint when she'd first come to Storm's End, her rage, while still potent, had been tempered once again by her self-control. She still wanted him to suffer but she no longer wanted to brutalise him. Part of her did, a dark part she kept viciously locked away that clamoured for her to unleash her vilest magic upon him because she would be justified, he would deserve it, but that was a dangerous path so she settled herself with his imprisonment as enough. But that was not to say she stood in Arlyssa's way when the woman with the blood of the Storm King's and thousands of years of supremacy in her veins took her own initiative, and her own revenge. It belonged to her anyway, and Azalea was satisfied. She abhorred seeing people suffer and hated when people did bad things, but even Azalea could make an exception and she made that for her friend.

Not long after the son of House Hoare had been disposed of a turn of the moon later, after Arlyssa was satisfied and finished having her way, word came that the king of the stormlands and his company were returning from the great war in Essos. While she was not the same as before, Arlyssa had made her peace finally and was relieved to hear of their return. Her relief was dimmed when her brother returned without her husband, however, and her healing was set back as she mourned his death. However heartbreaking it was, though, it provided a convenient cover for Arlyssa's change in personality. As far as Argilac was aware his sister was never the same again after the loss of her great love, and Arlyssa's ordeal at the hands of the ironborn was never mentioned to him by anyone. Later he would hear rumours and confront her and she would tell him honestly, and it would only make his war against the Iron Islander's more personal, but that would not be for many years.

After his return, Argilac was too distracted by his pursuit for a wife so he could have an heir, and the war he held against the incursion of Harren the Black into his territory, to pay much attention to his sister's new attitude, regardless of how much he loved her. Before his second war with the ironborn was much underway, however, and while he was in pursuit of a wife, Azalea had noticed Arlyssa's suffering temperament, even more so after the death of her love, and offered to take her away.

"Come with me to Braavos," Azalea offered, squeezing Arlyssa's hand. She still intended to visit the city and her guilt over leaving Arlyssa was eased when the bright idea of bringing her with her sparked in her mind.

Arlyssa looked up at Azalea and held her breath for a moment before she sighed, shaking her head. Ever since she was small Arlyssa had only ever wanted to go on adventures with Azalea. She had become more responsible as she grew and accepted that she was needed at home, but she had never denied she would run away with Azalea once she had the chance. It was truly a mark of how much Arlyssa had changed that she was rejecting her friend's offer now.

"No, Azalea," she refused, looking like it was the last thing she wanted to do. "I am a Durrandon of Storm's End. My pride won't let me run away from this."

"No one would blame you," Azalea persuaded, wishing desperately to whisk her friend away from the bad memories of her torture and her deceased husband. Selfishly, she also wanted to have the company.

"I would blame me," Arlyssa admitted, looking down at their entwined hands. "You did more for me than I could have ever hoped, and I am grateful beyond expression. But there is work to be done in Storm's End and my brother needs me. And I need my family."

Azalea wasn't offended for not being considered family to Arlyssa in this instance, but she was sad. She heeded her friend's wish regardless of her personal feelings on the matter and bid her all the best.

"If you ever change your mind, I will be here faster than the raven flies."

Her promise was heartfelt and Arlyssa was grateful, but Azalea never saw Arlyssa again.

.

Azalea had spent long years in the city founded by escaped slaves. In fact, she'd not left it yet. The city built on the shallow brackish waters of a fog-shrouded lagoon had proved itself to be as varied as she'd heard, and even more fascinating besides. Abhorring slavery for all her life, the great city that had been built on such a powerful ideal as no one ever being bound in such a way again had stolen her breath and her imagination. Azalea had not intended to spend so long in its hundred isles but had each new day, and each full turn of the moon, found something new and wonderful to capture her attention and to learn.

Never had she stopped her work helping other people even after she crossed the sea, and had found an honoured place in the House of Red Hands. The centre of healing in Braavos had in fact heard tale of her already and, once she'd proved her identity, they had rushed her through their great hospice and celebrated her arrival as if she was their own idol. Her work with the hospice had continued, their values singing a similar tune in her own heart. She had also learned from them their ways of healing and, while she couldn't teach them many of her own ways that required magic, she taught them the potions she knew and the medicine she'd learned in her old world that could be applied by them, and gifted them with dittany herb plants cut straight from her collection in Highgarden after a quick Apparition back and forth. Her regard among the healers was high and announcement of her arrival had spread more quickly through Braavos than she thought it possible.

Word of her had brought more people to the House of Red Hands than was usual, and not all those in need of healing. The septons and septas from the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea were the first to approach her, their reverence for the one the High Septon had long ago proclaimed the Light of the Seven causing them to hold celebrations for her, and every year on the day of her arrival in Braavos since. The followers of the Seven Who Are One were the first devotees to show her favour but they were not the last. Moonsingers, and priests and priestesses from the Temple of the Lord of Light, came to see her and prove or disprove her legend as they saw fit. The moonsingers said they saw her truth and she was invited to their grand temple for songs. Their snow-white marble structure and large silvered dome were glorious, but Azalea was able to do something more for them. In the way of Hogwarts, she charmed their ceiling to show the sky above, using the Elder Wand for the tricky spellwork, so that it was not only the milk glass windows that showed the phases of the moon but the real moon above too. Her fame blew out of almost all proportions after her gift to the largest and most historically important temple in the city of Braavos, and the Temple of the Moonsingers in the Secret City was forevermore considered one of the greatest marvels in the world.

The followers of R'hllor were quick to gain her attention next, almost frenzied over her gifts and power. Azalea had never known much about the Lord of Light beyond that he was known as the red god in Westeros and that he was worshipped using fire. So it came as a jarring experience to learn the history of R'hllor, and most especially his antithesis the Great Other. Tales the children of the forest told her had flooded back into her mind, and the memory of their warning concerning the Long Night had chilled her as if it was winter already. It was unsettling to hear such similar stories from totally separate cultures and people, in entirely separate parts of the world. Azalea had quietly mentioned the tales to the red priests and her belief such evil would be back as it always was and they had devoutly yet solemnly agreed with her words.

There was joy to be found in her learning with the priests, however. Their abilities to call upon fire to fight and impress the common people had enthralled her, though not as much as her superior abilities with fire seemed to enthral them. Azalea took great pleasure in creating Bluebell Flames that became more popularly known among them as Cold Fire, and the blue flames burned around the temple for years to come, fascinating both the devoted and the inquisitive, and the market price of the few successfully stolen fires was exponentially high. As with the five dragons of long ago, the followers of the Lord of Light beheld her fiery talents and inability to burn with wonder, citing her hair as proof she was favoured by their god long before she learned such talents and only gained such gifts because R'hllor granted them for his chosen. Some even began to whisper Azor Ahai wherever she went and, while she grudgingly accepted though did not encourage the adoration other faithful had of her, she gravely told them she was not their chosen one any more than she was the Seven's. She'd had enough of that long ago.

Azalea joined the disciples as they sang at night to their red god, calling upon him to bring back the dawn. She stayed with them longer than the others, finding beauty and awesome power in their faith and practices, and curious how deeply their similarities with the children's stories ran. The followers of R'hllor described to her their fiery visions and proved once more that this world had a firmer grasp of prophecies and dreams of the future than hers ever had. They also spoke of their ability to raise the dead if their Lord of Light granted it, by way of the rite of the last kiss. Azalea never saw any proof of this for herself but their conviction was so strong that she found herself withholding judgement. After all, she'd learned long ago that the Others were capable of raising the dead; she figured it made sense for the other side of that coin to be capable of the same phenomenon. While the Temple of the Lord of Light held wonder for her, however, it also left her feeling deeply disturbed by their prophecies and promise of the darkness and coming terror, hitting so close to home because of the similarities she could plainly see in their beliefs and the truth of the children's lessons. So while humbled by the red priests and partial to their red god, she departed from the temple and gave her curious attention to the other gods worshipped in the temple district of the city.

The smaller places of worship on the Isle of the Gods had all fascinated her while she explored them, each temple readily accepting her into their halls, having seen for themselves the wonders she could accomplish. It was the House of Black and White that was ever calm, though, not revelling in her arrival but inviting her inside and speaking with her quietly. Where other temples had expected great marvels and gifts aplenty, and enthusiastically invited her into all parts of their halls, the temple to the Many-Faced God remained a quiet, very still place that asked of her nothing and kept its secrets. It was like a retreat after the whirlwind of other worshippers, and she found it a place of quiet contemplation and sombre peace. The House of Black and White was a mysterious temple that was the closest thing to death she'd encountered since she'd died the first time. The quintessential truth in the religion gave her time for thought and summoned in her a humility that the other temples had suppressed during their veneration. She also did not doubt the servants of the Many-Faced God were studying her and learning from her in ways they did not reciprocate. They did not ask why she was sometimes called the Undying, an exception to their faith in their eyes, but she suspected they might have known all the same and drawn their own conclusions.

Though the House of Black and White felt like a safe harbour during the storm of outside, she had felt prickles of awareness and constant, subconscious unease while she'd visited its halls. So it came as a quiet relief when the Sealord invited her to his great palace. Ever had she rubbed shoulders with the great and powerful of this world, unavoidable when she offered and gave such miraculous and unreserved healing and protection with sweeping, resultant fame, but Braavos was more like her democratic home of old than anything in Westeros had been, and that earned a place in her heart. She was not naïve enough to expect a perfect democracy, of course, her own in the wizarding world proof enough how easily corruption could flourish. But it was ever the ideal that held the torch and that ideal was infinitely important, because without such the people would have no vision of what to strive for or rule by which to judge themselves. The handsome Sealord lavishly spoiled her while she stayed with him and begged her more than once to stay and be his wife. Years gone by or not, however, she still ached for what she could have had with Brandon, so she comforted herself in the bed of the Sealord but did not accept his numerous proposals.

The Sealord didn't just spoil her in efforts to win her favour, though; he also facilitated her desire to learn the famous water dance of Braavos. His own First Sword was instructed to teach her and she spent many days all around Braavos, heeding his teachings and acquiring many new skills. She enjoyed the quick, fluid movements and light steps, and found herself much more suited to the style than she had any other. The courtesans of Braavos also proved themselves true of their own legend. Azalea learned quickly and well why they were so sought after and had duels fought in their names. She had thought it an exaggeration at first but, after witnessing for herself a fight between two men upon whose lips were the names of two different courtesans, she amended her belief and did not underestimate them again. She found good and erudite friends among the people of Braavos and joy in the amalgam of culture, religion, tradition, and race. Azalea imagined that if she spent one hundred years in the Secret City it would still surprise her.

But she was nowhere near to spending one hundred years in Braavos when Torrhen recalled her to Westeros again. It had been evening when she heard his call, only catching it by chance. It was the anniversary of the Uncloaking, the annual ten days of feasting and masked revelry, the greatest festival Azalea had ever partaken in, and thousands of people from all over the known world had arrived in Braavos to participate in the celebrations. It was the tenth day and soon midnight, which meant the great roaring of the Titan of Braavos and the unmasking of all its celebrants. The mood was high in the streets and Azalea was drinking wine and dancing with rich and poor alike, caught in the furore of festivity. She'd stepped away for a moment to relieve herself and, between close walls, had heard his voice call her name. Over the years Torrhen had called her less and less often, and she realised with a start that they hadn't spoken in months. It was with joy she answered his call, still drunk on revelry and wine, but soon her delight turned to ash, and her face grew grim.

Torrhen told her of the Targaryen lord who had claimed himself king of all Westeros, by dragons and sword, and who was winning. The northern king was beseeching her to help. Word was Edmyn Tully had sided with the dragonlord, renouncing his overlord Harren the Black, and many other riverlords had taken heart and followed him in their desperation to break free of the Iron Islander's tyranny. The Trident had already sided with the Targaryens, and the ironborn had been defeated and Harren and all his sons burned. Azalea couldn't say she felt much pity for them but Argilac had also fallen shortly after to the relatively unknown Baratheon man named Orys, the right-hand of the Targaryen king, and she felt grief for the child she'd seen upend his bowl on his head after every meal for the first three years of his life. But the dragons were burning all who stood in their path. The stormlands had thrown down their swords with the fall of their king and given over his maiden daughter to Baratheon when she sought to defy the approaching host and declared herself Storm Queen. The victory of the one they were calling Aegon the Dragon over the riverlands and stormlands had finally prompted Torrhen to call his banners. Such was the threat presented by the Targaryens that King Torrhen had relented and called her too. He never wanted to drag her into another war, he admitted, knowing her soft heart, but said his need was dire and he knew no other choice.

Azalea had Apparated straight to her rooms in the Sealord's Palace, her euphoria from earlier in the night a distant memory, and she was so deep in contemplation that she barely heard the Titan's roar signalling midnight and the highlight of the festivities. With a wave of her hand she gathered all her things into her small bag and sat down heavily on her lavish bed. The war Torrhen spoke of was not a territorial dispute between the many kings of Westeros like so many in the past, a war isolated to one part of the country and leaving the remainder of it mostly be; this was one man's war to rule them all and tear down each kingdom's individual freedoms so he could sit above every single one. This was a war for the country, her country, and Azalea would never turn herself away from her own.

How long she spent in meditation, consumed by moral conflicts, she didn't know, but the sun had not yet risen when she became aware of the new presence in her doorway. Azalea looked up and beheld the High Priest of the Lord of Light, looking as comfortable in her room as he ever had in the temple.

"You are returning across the sea to stand in fire and blood," he avowed quietly, dark eyes full of faith in his god and conviction in his words. Azalea reflexively opened her mouth to ask him how he'd known but closed it as she realised.

"You saw this in the flame."

He nodded his head and stepped inside, walking towards her hearth and kneeling before the embers. He stoked the fire with new wood and then raised his palm and lit it ablaze as though it had been burning strong all night. Azalea admired his skill and small display of power as she listened to him speak.

"We of the one true god knew this reign of dragons would come," he told her, not taking his eyes off the dancing flames.

Azalea shook her head but stayed seated on the bed. "Are you saying the kingdoms should kneel to them, that's it's expected? People are dying, innocent people."

"People die," he said, lifting his hand up to tease the fire with graceful fingers, "innocent and guilty. They will always die."

"My friends are asking for my help to stop the Targaryens," she revealed, though she suspected he already knew. "I can't deny them aid when they ask it of me."

"You will help Westeros as you always have. In old ways and in new ways. Time brings change. Change is fixed."

She sighed, and wondered why she sometimes bothered. When the red priests spoke of the future it was always painted as clear as smoke.

"So what did you come to tell me? Surely not just that change is inevitable. I already know that," she murmured, rubbing her hands on her thighs. The priest looked up at her then, finally, and raised a hand towards her in anticipation.

"I did not come to speak to you of prophecy," he disclosed, lifting his chin as pride sparked in his eyes. "The Lord of Light wishes for you to see something in the flame."

Her brow furrowed and she lurched slightly in her seat, as if her feet were already trying to move her forward before she even comprehended what he'd said. Once she did, she didn't move straight away, and instead studied the high priest with more curiosity than apprehension. She'd observed the priests of R'hllor study their flames, and they had explained to her what they'd seen in them, but never had she perceived anything herself. Doubt crept in and she wondered if she really would, but his hand was still outstretched and Azalea chose not to disappoint him.

She stepped forward and took his hand, kneeling down next to him before the fire. His dark eyes reflected the flame as they gazed into hers before he turned towards the fire and lifted his chin in its direction.

"Look, and witness his gift," he murmured, still holding her hand. Azalea studied him for one last moment before her eyes were drawn to the dancing flames. Her mind flashed back to crystal balls in stuffy rooms, and a bug-eyed old teacher wailing for her students to gaze into the ball and See. Azalea never had seen anything, not once, and felt deeply that she never would.

Then she did see something, however, flickering in the fire. Her eyes narrowed in an effort to discern what it was and she leaned closer to the blaze. A quick stab to her hand had her gasping and jerking around to see what had caused her sudden pain. The red priest held a small knife in one hand and, with his other still holding her own, lifted her hand above the fire and squeezed until blood dribbled forth and hissed as it kissed the fire. The flame burned suddenly brighter and seemed to swell, the heat feeling tight but not unpleasant on her skin, and the hissing became a quiet roar as the inferno consumed her offering.

Azalea resisted the urge to ask him what he was thinking, too consumed by her surprise. With a hard exhale, wishing the priest had given her some warning, she pulled her hand back fully from his and returned her gaze to the flame. The colours danced and tricked her eyes, making her hold her breath in one moment and release it in disappointment the next. She bit her lip and grew tired of waiting but respectfully kept looking for the sake of the red priest.

"Look, and see," he whispered, his own eyes riveted on the fire. And then, like his words were a magic all their own, suddenly Azalea saw, and believed.

Dragons flashed through the fire, their own fiery breath melding with the flame trapped in the hearth. She saw men dying and trees set ablaze, and boats and horses burning. There was a large castle, the most monstrous she'd ever seen, melted as if it were made of wax, and still smoking. Homes and towns were reduced to ash and people were wandering the country destitute. She saw three kings of Westeros kneeling, with their blades laid in submission at their feet. She saw sand, and death, and a throne made of swords, and an unfamiliar three-headed dragon banner fluttering from the turrets of an unfamiliar red stone keep.

The vision ended and she leaned back from the fire, the tight fists her hands had become unclenching slowly. She breathed hard and tried not to shake, because the lands and people in her vision had been burning and hurting as the result of one dragonlord's quest for supremacy. Her friends really did need her help.

"I'm going to Westeros," she murmured, clenching her jaw and no longer seeing anything but the bright light in the hearth.

The devotee of R'hllor turned to study her neutrally, eyes lingering on her bloody palm.

"The Lord of Light has shown you what you needed to see, but know that dragons are ever held in high praise by those who worship the one true god and his sacred fire."

She sighed heavily and bowed her head, then turned to him with weary eyes.

"Do you ever give clear advice?" she grumbled only half-jokingly, in an attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

He was not moved. "The Lord of Light always shows truth, it is man who is at fault for misinterpreting his visions. And remember," he warned, eyes shadowed and intense, "the night is dark and full of terrors."

Azalea nodded her head and let it be. He sounded exactly like every other Seer she'd ever met. Soon he left, and the dawn came, and Azalea was seeking audience with the Sealord and advising him it was her time to leave. He offered to send her ships in support of her opposition of the Targaryens, the memory of Braavos long for the slavery the Valyrians had forced upon their founders ages ago. Azalea refrained from giving him a definite answer, though honoured by his offer, unwilling to commit without more information regarding current events in her country. First and foremost she wanted to convene with Torrhen and see for herself the state of affairs in Westeros. She would wait to gather arms until after ascertaining exactly what was going on.

* * *

So I hope you like thus far. I've been asked to write a Rhaegar/fem!Harry and I do plan to eventually, once I have an idea ( _secret reveal time: I actually don't like his character all that much, but he_ is _interesting, I'll give him that, and I'm curious to write him_ ), but I got to thinking about a different Targaryen instead and couldn't resist finally writing a MOD!Harry (male or female, didn't care, just wanted to do it). Who knows – Azalea is immortal in this, so maybe my Rhaegar story will end up being a sequel instead of a standalone. Huh, I think I just found my idea. So I guess this is when I say there will be a sequel. Right. **There will be a sequel!** (Eventually.) In fact, I think I've already got plot ideas. *brainstorming* Yep, I do. Great!

Some artistic licence was (and will continue to be) taken with the timelines (and personalities) in GRRM's world, that's a given. I know you're all smart enough to know I used a bit of imagination for these things but I'm obliged to say so anyway. Same with some characters' ages (if we don't know them exactly). I tried to be vague enough but, well … oh well. You know how it is. On the plus side, my _The World of Ice and Fire_ book got a workout. (I'm that nerd).

 _For those of you following my Harry Potter fem!Harry_ Red Sky At Night _, that will be updated next :)_

NOTE ADDED 16/05/2017: _So much enthusiasm for this story; thank you everyone! Just to make things clear, this will be a five part story, with two sequels planned following its conclusion._ Kingdom Come _has not finished yet. I also hope to have the next part posted before July, if not sometime then. Sorry for the wait, but real life._


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